War  Verse 


EDITED  BY 

FRANK  FOXCROFT 

^1 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 


Fifth  Printing 


To 

F.  R.  F. 


PREFACE 

This  is  by  no  means  the  first  collection  of  poems  of 
the  great  war;  and  it  is  certain  that  it  will  not  be  the 
last.  If  it  has  one  outstanding  characteristic  which  dis- 
tinguishes it  from  other  collections,  it  is  that  the  material 
for  it  is  not  the  result  of  a  quest  among  volumes  of  verse, 
and  only  to  a  slight  degree  is  it  the  work  of  the  recog- 
nized poets. 

It  owes  its  origin  to  the  fact  that  the  Editor  has  been 
a  close  reader  of  the  English  journals,  magazines  and 
reviews  since  August,  1914,  and  has  been  increasingly 
impressed  with  the  fine  quality  of  the  war  verse  con- 
tributed by  writers  unknown  or  little  known.  The  spirit 
rather  than  the  form  of  this  verse  carries  its  appeal  to 
the  reader.  It  is  not  the  work  of  professional  verse 
writers  who  have  seen  in  the  events  of  the  war  stirring 
and  timely  literary  material ;  but,  to  a  large  extent,  it  is 
the  spontaneous  expression  of  sincere  feeling, — the  feel- 
ing of  the  soldier  in  the  trenches,  waiting  for  the  order 
to  go  "  over  the  top  "  the  next  morning,  and  thinking  of 
home,  of  England,  of  Oxford,  or  of  the  crocuses  of  Not- 
tingham, or  the  feeling  of  the  wounded  man  in  the  hos- 
I>ital  or  of  the  nurse  who  cares  for  him.  In  not  a  few 
instances,  the  jjoems,  when  printed,  have  borne,  under 
the  name  r)f  the  writer,  the  inscrijjtion  "  Killed  in  action, 

,"  which  has  given  ihe  lines  the  peculiar  poignancy 

i)i  a  message  from  a  man  who  has  fought  his  last  fight, 
and  has  done  it  without  fear  or  faltering. 

V 


I 


vi  PREFACE 

Regarded  merely  as  verse,  some  of  the  poems  by  little- 
known  writers  in  this  collection  rise  to  as  high  a  level 
as  the  writing  of  the  recognized  poets;  regarded  as  the 
expression  of  true  feeling,  they  often  rise  much  higher. 

It  would  be  presumptuous  to  describe  this  volume  as 
an  anthology.  That  term  would  imply  research,  orderly 
arrangement,  classification.  It  has  seemed  to  the  Editor 
more  suitable  to  present  these  poems  without  explanations 
or  auy  definite  grouping.  The  verses  are  sometimes  light 
and  gay,  more  often  serious,  but  always  they  ring  true. 

Frank  Foxcroft. 


INDEX  TO  TITLES 


A.  B.  V 

••  A    Merry   Heart  Goes  All 

THE  Day "   . 

Abi,  Viator 

Admiral  Dugout 

After- Days 

All  Ihis  is  Ended 

All's  Well  ! 

Amazons,  The   . 

America  at  St.  Paul 

America  Comes  In 

Anxious  Dead,  The 

Any     Soldier    Son     to     Hi 

Mother 

Al'OCALYPSE,  An 

Armed  Liner,  The 
Attila 


Back  to  London  :    A  Poem  of 
Leave  

Ballad    of    the    "Eastern 
Cr(j\vn,"  The 

Battle        

Before  Battle 

Before  Marching,  and  After 

Bel(;ium 

"  Bells  o"  Banff,  The"  . 

Birds  F^lit  Unafraid,  The 

Boat-Race  Day,  191 5 

Bridge  IUilders,  The 

BurnsH  Merchant  Service,  191 5 

Broken  Soldier,  The 

But  a  Short  Time  to  Live 

Call,  The 

Called  Back     .... 
Call  of  England,  The     . 
Call  to  Arms  in  Our  Street, 

The 

Carol  FROM  Flanders,  A  (1914) 
Casualty  List,  The  . 
Chalk  and  Flint 


y?.  V. 


C.  Fox  Sill  ah 
Eric  Chi  I  III  tin 
Rupert  Brooke 

F.  W.  Boiiniiilon 
Richard  A.  Crouch 
Margaretta  Byrde 
Klaxon 

John  McCrae 

N.  G.  H.     . 
Edward  Shillito  . 
H.  Sinalley  Sarson 

G.  R.  Glasgozu    . 


Sergeant  Joseph  Lee 

C.  Fox  Smith 
Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 
Habberton  Lulham 
Thomas  Hardy     . 
H.  D.  Rawnsley 
Neil  Muiiro 
Herbert  Trench    . 

Evelyn  Sinitns 
C.  Fox  Sntifli 
Katharine    Jynan 
Leslie  Coulson 

F.  W.  Bourdillon  . 

Orellius 

Owen  Seaman 

W.  M.   Letts 
Frederick  Niven  . 
W.  L. 


74 


vn 


Vlll 


INDEX  TO  TITLES 


Chant  OF  Empire,  A 
Chaplain  to  the  P'orces  . 
Charing  Cross  . 
Chivalry  of  the  Sea,  The 
Christ  in  Flanders 
Clerk,  The 
Crocuses     at     Nottingham 

(From  a  Trench) 
Cross  in  Flanders,  A 

Dawn  .... 

Dead,  The 

Dea*to  the  Living,  The 

Death  and  the  Flowers 

Devon  Men 

Dies Irae  .... 


yames  Rhoades    . 
VV.  M.  Letts 
Marian  Allen 
Robert  Bride^es     . 
L.   iV.  f        . 

B.  H.  M.  Hetherington 


G.  Rostrevor  Hamilton 

P.  S.  M. 

A.  E.  Murray 
Laurence  Binyon  . 
Eden  Phillpotts     . 

B.  H.  W.    '.         '. 


37 

8( 

39- 
174 

7« 
264 

1 98 

43 

27 
284 

44 
277 

4S 
92 


X 


Epiphany  Vision  (In  the  Ward) 

Euthanasy 

Everlasting  Arms,  The 

Faithful  Comrade,  The 
Farewell . 
Farewell  to  Anzac 
Flagrante  Bello     . 
Flanders  1915  . 
"  For  a  Scrap  of  Paper  ' 

For  the  Red  Cross  . 
For  Thee  They  Died 
From  Bosrah     . 

German  Prisoners    . 
Gifts  of  the  Dead   . 
God's  Hills 
f  jOds  of  War     . 
(ioLD  Stripes 
,-Gkave  in  Flanders,  A 
Gray  Gauntlet 
Gkeat  Guns  of  England,  The 
Guards  Came  Through,  The 
Guns  in  Sussex,  The 

Half  a  Score  o'  Sailormen    . 
Heart-Cry,  The 
He  is  Dead  Who   Will   Not 
Fight 


Mary  Adair- Mac donald  249 
R.  H.  Law  .  .  .282 
A.  G.  Pry s- Jones  .       50 


P.  y.  Fisher 
Hetiry  Newbolt 
C.  Fox  Smith 
K.  C.  Spiers 
Margaret  Sackville 
Paul  Hyacinth   Loyson 

(Tramlated  hy  Sir  James 
Eraser) 

Owen  Seaman 
John  Drinkwaier 
Beatrice  Allhusen 

Sergeant  Joseph  Lee 

Habberton  Lulham 

Edzvard  Melbourne 

A.  E.   . 

Florence  A.   Vicars 

Lord  Crewe 

Ehnina  Atkinsoit 

Lord  Dunsany 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 

Sir  Arthur  Con  an  Doyh 

C.  Fox  Smith 

F.   IV.  Bourdillon 

Julian  Greiifill   . 


164 

III 

153 

5 
149 

179 

255 

42 

182 

168 
292 
215 
68 
127 

91 

46 
204 

3 
31 

48 
13c 

15c 


INDEX  TO  TITLES 


IX 


He  Prayed         .... 

Helpi.ng 

■'  Hey  !  Jock.  Are  Ye  Glad  Ye 

Listed?  "     , 
His  Majesty's  Mine-Sweei'ers 
Home  at  Last    .... 
Hy.mn  of  Love,  A  (An  Answer 

to  tlie  "  Hynui  of  Hate  ") 


^' 


Have    a    Rendezvous    with 
Death 
N  England 

N   F" LANDERS  FIELDS 

N  Last  Year's  Camp 

N  THE  Morning 

N  Ti.ME  ok  War 

N  War        .... 

N  War  Time 

NN  o' THE  Sword,  The  :  A  Song 

of  Youth  and  War 
NWARD  Clarion,  The 


It  Cannot  Be     . 
King's  Highway,  The 
Kitchener's  March 

La.ment  Fro.m  the  Dead,  A 

Laurel  and  Cypress 

"  Leave  Her,  Johnnie  !  " 

"  Le  PoiLU  DE  Carcassonne 

Life's  Favorite 

Litany  in  War  Ti.me 

Little  Old  Road,  Ihe 

LiTTi.F  Peoples,  The 

LiTiLE  Ships.  The 

Living  Line,  The 

London  Trocjps 

Ix)ne  Hand,  The 

Lone  Woman,  The     . 

Loo.M,  The 

Lost  Land,  A  :    To  Germany 

L<^)UVAIN        .... 

Lullahy.  a         .         .         . 

Mat. PIES  in  I'icardy 
March,  The 
Make.  Liheri'm  . 
Martyred  Natkjn,  The    . 


IV.  M.  Letts 

167 

P.  B 

107 

Neil  Munro 

165 

R.  0'  I).  Ross-Lezuin    . 

129 

G.  A".  Chesttrtoii 

65 

Richard  Hope,  Lieut., 

R.  N.    . 

228 

Ahiti  Seeder 
May  O'  Rourke     . 
Jo/ut  McCrae 
Mary  Adair- Mac  donah 
Klaxon 
Ltsbia  Tlianet 
Ivan  Adair 
Katharine  Tynan 


IVallace  Bertram  Nich 
ols 

F.  E.  Maitland    . 
Henry  Newbolt     . 

A.  J.B..         . 

W.  E.  K.     . 

J.  Napier  Milne  . 
C.  Fox  Smith 

Alfred  Cochrane   . 
J.   VV.  A.      . 
Gertrude  Vaut^han 

B.  Paul  Neuman 

Harold  Be^fiie 

C.  Fox  Smith 
Robert  A.  Christie 
y.  H.  Kniijht-AdA'in 

Laurence  Binyon  . 

G.  R.  Glasgow    . 

Tipttca 
y.   C.  Sguirr 
J/itity  Van  Dyke 
It:  //.  Gadsdon   . 


INDEX  TO  TITLES 


Mater  Dolorosa 
Men  Who  Man,  The 
Merchantmen  . 
"Missing" 
Missing      .        .        • 
MoRiTURi  Te  Salutant 
My  Son 

Naval  Reserve,  The 
New  Heaven 
New  Mars,  The 
No  Man's  Land 
Non-Combatants 
North  Sea  Ground,  The 
Not  with  Vain  Tears 
Nurse,  The 
Nurses,  Their    . 

Old  Soldier,  The     . 
Old  Women 

On  Patrol.    To 

On  Patrol — 1797 
Open  Boat,  The 
"Orion's"    Figurehead 


AT 


Whitehall,  The 
"  Our  Annual" 
Our  Fighting  Men    . 
Oxford  RevisitedinWarTime 

Paris  Again       .        .        . 
Passing-Bell,  The    . 
Patrol,  The 

Peace  .... 

Pipes  in  Arras     (April,  1917) 
Pity  Of  It,  The 
"  Poor  Old  Ship  !  "  . 
Portsmouth  Bells    . 
Prayer  Before  War 
Prayer  in  Time  of  War 
Processional     . 
Pro  Patria 

Quartermaster,  The 
queenslanders 

"  Real  Presence  "    . 
Red  Poppies  in  the  Corn 


Wi/liam  Watson 
C.  Fox  Sinith 


P.  H.  B.  L. 

Ada  Tyrrell 

Evelyn  Underhill 
Katharine  Tynan 
Florence    Earle    Coates 
J.  H.  Knight-Adkin 
Evelyn  Underhill 

Rupert  Brooke 

W.  H.  O.     '.         '. 

Katharifie  lynan 
Klaxon 


C.  Fox  Smith 


Klaxon 

Ella    Fuller  Mail  land 

Tertius  Van  Dyke 


Walter  Sichel 
J.  H.  Knight-Adkin 
Rupert  Brooke 
Neil  Munro 
Thomas  Hardy     . 
C.  Fox  Smith 

'W.  G.  Hole 
E.  Nesbit     . 
Theodore  Maynard 
Owen  Seaman 

Klaxon 
Will  H.    Ogilvie 

Ivan  Adair 
W.  Campbell  Galraith 
C.  M.  G. 


INDEX  TO  TITLES 


XI 


Reported  Missing 
Khei.ms  Catheoral 
Road,  The 


St.  Ol'en  in  Picardy 
Salonika  in  November     . 

i5i:AKCH-LlGHTS,  ThE 

Sedan  .... 

Sekiua  to  the  Hohenzollerns 

(August.  1915)      . 
Sky   Signs 

Smael  Crafi'     .        .        . 
Soldier    of    the   South,   The 
Soldier's  Litany,  A 

Soldier,  The     . 

"  Somewhere  in  France " 

Song  of  the  Bt)MHARD,  The 

Song  of  the  Soldiers 

Song  of  the  Zeppelin 

"  Soil,  OF  A  Nation.  The  " 

Spires  of  Oxford,  The     . 

Sportsmen  in  Paradise     . 

Subalterns  :  A  Song  of  Oxford 

Test  of  Batti,e,  The 
"  iHAT  Have  No  Doubts  " 
"  They  Also  Serve  " 
Three  Lads,  The 

To  A  Skylark  Behind  Our 
Trenches     .... 

To  A  Soldier  in  Hospital 

To  All  Our  Dead     . 

To  America.  On  Her  First 
Sons  Fallen  in  the  Great 
War 

To  England       .... 

To  (]reat  Britain 

To  "  Hi.M  That's  Awa'" 

To  King  George 

To  THE  Memory  of  Field- 
Marshal  Earl  Kitchener 

To  THE  Memory  of  Fiei.d- 
.Makshal  Eakl  Roberts    . 


A.  G.  Kecmm 
McLandbiirt^Ji  W  ihon 
Siegfried    Sassoo/t, 
B.  E.  F. 


Brian  Hill 
Alfred  Noye$ 
Hilaire  Be  Hoc 

Cecil  Chesterton  . 
Klaxon 
C.  Fox  Smith 
Georg^e  Greenland 
Richard  Ralcit^li,  2il 
Lieut..  O.  and  B.  L.I. 
Rupert  Brooke 
yohn  Hogben 

Thomas  Hardy 

Violet  D.  Chapman 

Owen  Seaman 

IV.  M.  Letts 

Tipuca 

Mildred  Huxley  . 

Owen  Seaman 
Klaxon 


Elizabeth 
Fomian 


Chandler 


E.  de  S. 

IV.  M.  Letts 

Lucy  Masterman 


E.  M.   Walker      . 
Francis  Coutts 
H.    IK    R  awns  lev 
Mrs.   J.  O.  Arnold 
Sirdar   Daljit   Sini^h, 
C  S.  L     . 

Owen  Seaman 

Owen  Seaman 


245 
9(3 

227 

235 

2S1 

299 
258 

242 

243 

14 
273 

296 

71 
66 
251 
236 
109 
246 

58 
197 
209 

123 

247 
80 

169 

116 

184 

113 


230 

49 
125 

171 
219 
103 
290 


Xll 


INDEX  TO  TITLES 


To  THE  Men  Who  Have  Died 

FOR  England 
Toll-Payers,  The 
Twenty-Two 


/ 


Unmentioned  in  Dispatches 

"V.  A.  D." 

V.  A.  D 

Veteran,  The    . 

Voice  OF  Rachel  Weeping,  The 

Voices,  The 

Volunteer 


War 

War  Risks         .        . 
Watchmen  of  the  Night 
Wk  Hope  to  Win 
"  When  There  is  Peace" 
"Where  Are  You  Going, 

Great-Heart?" 
Where  the  Four  Winds  Meet 

"  Whose   Debtors    We    Are 
Wif'b  of   Flanders,  The 
Wind  in  the  Trees,  The 

Wireless  .... 
Woman's  Toll,  The 
Women  to  Men         .        . 


Alison  Lindsay 


Mary  Adair-Macdotiald 


Beatrice  Cregan   . 

Herbert  Asqxiith 

Florence  Earle  Coates 
C.  Fox  Sitiith 
Cecil  Roberts 
Austin  Dobson 
Austin  Dobson 

yohn  Oxc7iham    . 
Geoffrey     Dalrymple 
Nash 

G.  K.   Chesterton 
S.  Donald  Cox,  London 
Rifle  Brigade   . 

'Ruth  Diiffi'n        \ 


262 

143 
260 


Hele7i  Hester  Colvill    .     266 


162 
268 
278 
261 
21 
133 

234 
124 

177 

94 
156 

30  r 

279 
203 
238 

233 

112 

40 

70 


War  Verse 


AMERICA  COMES  IN 

We  are  coming  from  the  ranch,  from  the  city  and  the 

mine, 
And  tlie  word  has  gone  before  us  to  the  towns  upon  the 
Rhine ; 

As  the  rising  of  the  tide 
On  the  Old-World  side, 
We  are  coming  to  the  battle,  to  the  Line. 

From  the  valleys  of  Virginia,  from  the  Rockies  in  the 

North, 
We  are  coming  by  battalions,  for  the  word  was  carried 
forth : 

"  We  have  put  the  pen  away 
And  the  sword  is  out  to-day, 
For  the  Lord  has  loosed  the  Vintages  of  Wrath." 

We  are  singing  in  the  ships  as  they  carry  us  to  fight, 
As  our  fathers  sang  before  us  by  the  camp-fires'  light ; 

In  the  wharf-light  glare, 

They  can  hear  us  Over  There 
When  the  ships  come  steaming  through  the  night. 

Ivight  across  the  deej)  Atlantic  where  the  Lusitania  passed, 
With  the  l)attle-flag  of  Yankee-land  a-floating  at  the  mast 

We  are  coming  all  the  while, 

r)ver  twent}'  hundred  mile, 
And  we're  staying  to  the  linish,  to  the  last. 

1 


2  WAR  VERSE 

We  are  many — we  are  one — and  we're  in  it  overhead, 
We  are  coming  as  an  Army  that  has  seen  its  women  dead. 

And  the  old  Rebel  Yell 

Will  be  loud  above  the  shell 
When  we  cross  the  top  together,  seeing  red. 

Klaxon. 

Blackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE 


THE  GUARDS  CAME  THROUGH 

Men  of  the  21st 

Up  by  the  Chalk  Pit  Wood, 
Weak  with  our  wounds  and  our  thirst, 

Wanting  our  sleep  and  our  food, 
After  a  day  and  a  night — 

God,  shall  we  ever  forget ! 
Beaten  and  broke  in  the  fight. 

But  sticking  it — sticking  it  yet. 
Trying  to  hold  the  line, 

Fainting  and  spent  and  done, 
Always  the  thud  and  the  whine, 

Always  the  yell  of  the  Hun! 
Northumberland,  Lancaster,  York, 

Durham  and  Somerset, 
Fighting  alone,  worn  to  the  bone, 

But  sticking  it — sticking  it  yet. 

Never  a  message  of  hope ! 

Never  a  word  of  cheer ! 
Fronting  Hill  70's  shell-swept  slope, 

With  the  dull  dead  plain  in  our  rear. 
Always  the  whine  of  the  shell, 

Always  the  roar  of  its  burst. 
Always  the  tortures  of  hell, 

As  waiting  and  wincing  we  cursed 
Our  luck  and  the  guns  and  the  Boche, 

When  our  Corporal  shouted  "  Stand  to!  " 
And  I  heard  some  one  cry,  "  Clear  the  front 
for  the  (iuards  !  " 

And  the  Ckiards  came  through. 

Our  throats  the\  were  parched  and  hot, 
Ikit  Lord,  if  you'd  heard  the  cheers! 

Irish  and  Welsh  and  Scot, 
Coldstream  and  (Irenadicrs. 


WAR  VERSE 

Two  brigades,  if  you  please, 

Dressing  as  straight  as  a  hem, 
We — we  were  down  on  our  knees, 

Praying  for  us  and  for  them ! 
Praying  with  tear-wet  cheek. 

Praying  with  outstretched  hand, 
Lord,  I  could  speak  for  a  week. 

But  how  could  you  understand ! 
How  should  your  cheeks  be  wet, 

Such  feelin's  don't  come  to  you. 
But  when  can  me  or  my  mates  forget, 

When  the  Guards  came  through  ! 

"  Five  yards  left  extend !  " 

It  passed  from  rank  to  rank. 
Line  after  line  with  never  a  bend, 

And  a  touch  of  the  London  swank. 
A  trifle  of  swank  and  dash, 

Cool  as  a  home  parade. 
Twinkle  and  glitter  and  flash, 

Flinching  never  a  shade. 
With  the  shrapnel  right  in  their  face 

Doing  their  Hyde  Park  stunt, 
Keeping  their  swing  at  an  easy  pace. 

Arms  at  the  trail,  eyes  front ! 
Man,  it  was  great  to  see ! 

Man,  it  was  fine  to  do ! 
It's  a  cot  and  a  hospital  ward  for  me. 
But  I'll  tell  'em  in  Blighty,  wherever  I  be, 

How  the  Guards  came  through. 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle. 
The  Times. 


WAR  VERSE 


FLAGRANTE  BELLO 

IVhen  lit  fie  kings,  by  mighty  crowds  acclaimed. 
Triumphant  come  from  wars  they  visited. 
And  men  who  zvcre  enriched  by  those  zcho  died 
Are  honored  for  their  zvealth  and  for  their  words; 
When  money-lords  conspire  afresh  to  drive 
Men's  noblest  passions  to  the  basest  use, 
And  womoi,  white  and  warm  as  may,  zvhose  ghosts 
Made  e'en  the  mud  and  blood  of  tvar  to  bloom — 
When  women  droop  within  the  coward's  reach; 
Hold  them  apart,  of  happier  company. 
The  greatest  legion  cz'cr  raised  by  Death! 
Or  would  you  speak  of  them  say  only  this: 

No  envy  touched  them,  and  no  greed,  nor  hate, 

No  sorrow,  and  the  smouldering  of  loss. 

Theirs  was  no  huckster's  aim  and  trader's  fight, 

The  Sicyon  paths  of  gamblers  and  of  knaves; 

But  the  high  usufruct  of  wondrous  things, 

The  sunsets  and  the  dawns,  and  face  of  earth 

Sweet  after  rains,  and  brown,  and  patched  with  cloud, 

Or  green  where  fields  are  flowered  for  little  feet; 

And  sings  the  lark  'midst  white  and  magic  skies. 

And  speeds  the  busy  teamster  on  his  plough, 

Till  twilight  falls,  and  twilight's  looms  enfold 

With  sacred  light  his  cottage  and  its  babes — 

All  that  is  May-time,  all  that  is  England, 

Not  soon  forgot,  yet  readily  forgone, 

When  I'Veedom,  like  a  wind,  blows  through  the  soul. 

And  men  have  marked  the  night,  and  with  the  stars 

(]()  out,  in  silence,  and  the  rush  of  gold. 

Taking  their  beauty  with  them,  even  as  gods! 

O  gentlemen  of  England,  England's  sons, 
O  tiny  lads  who  climbed  a  father's  knee, 


6  WAR  VERSE 

And  grew  in  knighthood  'neath  a  mother's  eyes,  ' 

With  Youth's  delight  in  sunshine  and  in  power, 

(His  ears  enjeweling  the  blazoned  tide. 

His  wings  within  the  glory  of  the  dawn. 

His  feet  upon  the  path,  and  seeming  sleep 

Against  the  light  before  he  woke  to  speed, 

And  swooned  upon  the  goal;  the  breasts  of  victory!) 

Did  we  not  knozu  that  you  would  play  as  well 

IV hen  peril  chose  the  game,  and  pain  the  prise; 

Did  we  not  know  that  you  woidd  race  to  die? 

No  greater  glory  hath  the  dying  sun. 

By  all  the  angel  hosts  adorned — than  thine! 

K.  C.  Spiers. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


WAR  VERSE 


ANY  SOLDIER  SON  TO  HIS  MOTHER 

If  I  am  taken  from  this  patchwork  Hfe 

By  some  swift  outthrust  of  an  unseen  arm — 

The  death  that  strikes  my  comrades  day  and  night — 

I  pray  you  make  of  it  no  cause  of  tears, 

I  beg  you  grieve  not  for  me  overmuch. 

And  for  your  comfort  I  would  pen  this  thought: 

The  joy  you  had  of  me  in  childhood's  days 

When  in  your  arms  I  played  or  cried  or  prayed 

(Those  soft  warm  arms!     Can  you  or  1  forget?) 

\\ill  still  remain  with  you  when  I  am  gone. 

It  is  so  real  now,  that  memory; 

Not  death  itself  can  rob  you  of  your  child. 

The  boy  I  was,  the  man  I  grew  to  be, 

Despite  the  mother's  tender  hopes  and  fears, 

How  distant,  how  detached  and  cold  they  seem. 

And  so,  sweet  Mother,  here  I  stand  to  meet 

My  fate,  this  night  and  any  night ;  but  still 

Your  child,  imperishable  whilst  you  breathe; 

As  in  the  cradle,  so  until  the  end. 

N.  G.  H. 
The  Spectator. 


8  WAR  VERSE 


•      "  THE  BELLS  O'  BANFF  " 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water-side 

I  heard  a  maiden  sing, 
All  in  the  lee-lone  Sabbath  morn, 

And  the  green  glen  answering, 
"  No  longer  hosts  encountering  hosts 

Shall  clouds  of  slain  deplore, 
They  hang  the  trumpet  in  the  hall, 

And  study  war  no  more." 

Dead  men  of  ancient  tumults  lay 

In  dust  below  her  feet ; 
Their  spirits  breathed  to  her  but  scents 

Of  mint  and  the  meadow-sweet ; 
Singing  her  psalm,  her  bosom  calm 

As  the  dappled  sky  above, 
She  thought  the  world  was  dedicate 

For  evermore  to  love ! 

O  God !  my  heart  was  like  to  break, 

Hearing  her  guileless  strain. 
For  pipes  screamed  through  the  Highland  hills, 

And  swords  were  forth  again ; 
And  little  did  the  lassie  ken 

Banff's  battle  bells  were  ringing; 
Her  lad  was  in  the  gear  of  war 

While  she  was  happy  singing! 

Neil  Munro. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE 


BACK  TO  LONDON :  A  POEM  OF  LEAVE 

I  have  not  wept  when  I  have  seen 

My  stricken  comrades  die ; 
I  ha\  e  not  wept  when  we  have  made 

The  place  where  they  should  lie; 
My  heart  seemed  drowned  in  tears,  but  still 

No  tear  came  to  my  eye. 

There  is  a  time  to  weep,  saith  One, 

A  season  to  refrain ; 
How  should  it  ope,  this  fount  of  tears, 

While  I  sat  in  the  train, 
So  that  all  blurred  the  landscape  moved 

Out  with  the  window  pane? 

But  one  short  day  since  I  had  left 

A  land  upheaved  and  rent, 
\\'here  Spring  brings  back  no  bourgeoning, 

As  Nature's  force  were  spent ; 
Yet  now  I  traveled  in  a  train 

Thro'  the  kindly  land  of  Kent ! 

A  kindly  land,  a  pleasant  land. 

As  welcome  sight  to  me 
As  after  purgatorial  i)ains 

The  i Mains  of  Heaven  might  be, 
When  the  wondrous  Goodness  that  is  God 

Draws  a  soul  from  jeopardy. 

A  pleasant  land,  a  peaceful  land 

Of  wooded  hill  and  weald, 
Where  kine  stand  kncc-dec])  in  the  grass, 

Anrl  sheci)  k^'^'ze  in  the  field  ; 
A  blessed  land,  where  a  wounded  heart 

Might  readily  be  healed. 


lo  WAR  VERSE 

A  wholesome  land,  where  each  white  road 

Leads  to  a  ruddy  hearth ; 
Where  still  is  heard  the  sound  of  song 

And  the  kindly  note  of  mirth ; 
Where  the  strong  man  cheerful  wakes  to  toil 

And  the  dead  sleep  sound  i'  the  earth. 

I  have  not  wept  when  I  have  seen 

My  chosen  comrades  die; 
I  have  not  wept  while  we  have  digged 

The  grave  where  they  should  lie ; 
But  now  I  lay  my  head  in  my  hand 

Lest  my  comrades  see  me  cry. 

The  little  children,  two  by  two, 
Stand  on  the  five-barred  gate, 

And  wave  their  hands  to  waft  us  home 
Like  passengers  of  state; 

My  heart  is  very  full,  so  full 
It  holds  no  room  for  hate. 

The  children  climb  the  five-barred  gate 

And  blow  us  kisses  five. 
The  little  cripple  in  his  car 

Waves  from  the  carriage  drive : 
Blessed  are  the  dead,  but  blessed  e'en  more 

We  soldiers  still  alive ! 

Lo !  we  draw  near  to  London  town, 
The  troop  train  jolts  and  drags. 

The  friendly  poor  come  forth  once  more 
To  greet  us  in  their  rags — 

The  very  linen  on  the  line 

Flutters  and  flaunts  like  flags! 

The  girls  within  the  factory  grim 

Smile  at  the  broken  pane; 
The  seamstress  in  her  lonely  room 

Sighs  o'er  her  task  again ; 
The  servant  shakes  her  duster  forth 

To  signal  our  speeding  train ; 


WAR  VERSE  II 

The  station  names  go  flitting  past 

Like  old  familiar  friends ; 
The  smoke  cloud  with  the  clouds  aloft 

In  wondrous  fashion  blends, 
And,  lo !  we  enter  London  town. 

To  where  all  journeying  ends. 

I  have  not  wept  when  I  have  seen 

A  hundred  comrades  die; 
I  have  not  wept  when  that  we  shaped 

The  house  where  they  must  lie — 
But  now  I  hide  my  head  in  my  hand 

Lest  my  comrades  see  me  cry. 

These  are  the  scenes,  these  the  dear  souls, 

'Mid  which  our  lot  was  cast, 
To  this  loved  land,  if  Fate  be  kind. 

We  shall  return  at  last, 
For  this  our  stern  steel  line  we  hold — 

Lord,  may  we  hold  it  fast ! 

Sergeant  Joseph  Lee. 
The  Spectator. 


12  WAR  VERSE 


A  LOST  LAND 
{To  Germany) 

A  childhood  land  of  mountain  ways. 
Where  earthly  gnomes  and  forest  fays. 
Kind  foolish  giants,  gentle  bears, 
Sport  with  the  peasant  as  he  fares 
Affrighted  through  the  forest  glades. 
And  lead  sweet  wistful  little  maids 
Lost  in  the  woods,  forlorn,  alone. 
To  princely  lovers  and  a  throne. 
****** 

Dear  haunted  land  of  gorge  and  glen, 
Ah  me !  the  dreams,  the  dreams  of  men ! 

A  learned  land  of  wise  old  books 
And  men  with  meditative  looks, 
Who  move  in  quaint  red-gabled  towns 
And  sit  in  gravely- folded  gowns. 
Divining  in  deep-laden  speech 
The  world's  supreme  arcana — each 
A  homely  god  to  listening  Youth 
Eager  to  tear  the  veil  of  Truth ; 

Mild  votaries  of  book  and  pen 
Alas,  the  dreams,  the  dreams  of  men ! 

A  music  land,  whose  life  is  wrought 
In  movements  of  melodious  thought ; 
In  symphony,  great  wave  on  wave — 
Or  fugue,  elusive,  swift,  and  grave; 
A  singing  land,  whose  lyric  rhymes 
Float  on  the  air  like  village  chimes: 
Music  and  Verse — the  deepest  part 
Of  a  whole  nation's  thinking  heart ! 

^k  ^*  ^*  3|S  J»  3p 


WAR  VERSE  13 

Oh,  land  of  Now,  oh,  land  of  Then ! 
Dear  God  !  the  dreams,  the  dreams  of  men  ! 

Slave  nation  in  a  land  of  hate, 
\\  here  are  the  things  that  made  you  great? 
Child-hearted  once — oh,  deep  detiled. 
Dare  you  look  now  upon  a  child? 
Yfjur  lore — a  hideous  mask  wherein 
Self-worship  hides  its  monstrous  sin: 
Music  and  verse,  divinely  wed — 
How  can  these  live  where  love  is  dead? 
****** 

Oh,  depths  beneath  sweet  human  ken, 
God  help  the  dreams,  the  dreams  of  men ! 

Punch. 


14  WAR  VERSE 


/ 


SMALL  CRAFT 

When   Drake    sailed   out    from   Devon   to   break   King 

Philip's  pride, 
He  had  great  ships  at  his  bidding  and  little  ones  beside ; 
Revenge  was  there,  and  Lion,  and  others  known  to  fame. 
And  likewise  he  had  small  craft,  which  hadn't  any  name. 

Small  craft — small  craft,  to  harry  and  to  flout  'em! 
Small  craft — small  craft,  you  cannot  do  without  'em ! 
Their  deeds  are  unrecorded,  their  names  are  never  seen, 
But  we  know  that  there  were  small  craft,  because  there 
must  have  been. 

When  Nelson  was  blockading  for  three  long  years  and 

more. 
With  many  a  bluff  first-rater  and  oaken  seventy-four, 
To  share  the  fun  and  fighting,  the  good  chance  and  the 

bad, 
Oh,  he  had  also  small  craft,  because  he  must  have  had. 

Upon  the  skirts  of  battle,  from  Sluys  to  Trafalgar, 

We  know  that   there   were   small   craft,   because   there 

always  are ; 
Yacht,  sweeper,  sloop,  and  drifter,  to-day  as  yesterday, 
The  big  ships  fight  the  battles,  but  the  small  craft  clear 

the  way. 

They   scout  before   the   squadrons   when   mighty   fleets 

engage ; 
They  glean  War's  dreadful  harvest  when  the  fight  has 

ceased  to  rage; 
Too  great  they  count  no  hazard,  no  task  beyond  their 

power. 
And  merchantmen  bless  small  craft  a  hundred  times  an 

hour. 


WAR  VERSE  15 

In  Admirals'  dispatches  their  names  are  seldom  heard; 
Thev  justify  their  beinj^  by  more  than  written  word; 
In  battle,  toil  and  tempest  and  dangers  manifold 
The  doughty  deeds  of  small  craft  will  never  all  be  told. 

♦Scant  ease  and  scantier  leisure — they  take  no  heed  of 

these, 
For  men  lie  hard  in  small  craft  when  storm  is  on  the  seas ; 
A  long  watch  and  a  weary,  from  dawn  to  set  of  sun — 
The  men  who  serve  in  small  craft,  their  work  is  never 

done. 

And  if,  as  chance  may  have  it,  some  bitter  day  they  lie 
Out-classed,  out-gunned,  out-numbered,  with  naught  to 

do  but  die, 
When  the  last  gun's  out  of  action,  good-bye  to  ship  and 

crew, 
But  men  die  hard  in  small  craft,  as  they  will  always  do. 

Oh,  death  comes  once  to  each  man,  and  the  game  it  pays 

for  all, 
And  duty  is  but  duty  in  great  ship  and  in  small. 
And  it  will  not  vex  their  slumbers  or  make  less  sweet 

their  rest, 
Though    there's   never   a   big   black    headline    for   small 

craft  going  west. 

Great  ships  and  mighty  captains — to  these  their  meed 

of  praise 
For  patience,  skill  and  daring,  and  loud  victorious  days; 
To  every  man  his  portion,  as  is  both  right  and  fair, 
But  oh  !  forget  not  small  craft,  for  they  have  done  their 

share. 

Small  craft — small  craft,  from  Scapa  Flow  to  Dover, 
Small  craft — small  craft,  all  the  wide  world  over, 
At  risk  of  war  and  shipwreck,  tori)edo,  mine  and  shell, 
All  honor  be  to  small  craft,  for  oh,  they've  earned  it  well ! 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
Punch. 


i6  WAR  VERSE 


PIPES  IN  ARRAS 
(April,  1917) 

In  the  burgh  toun  of  Arras 
When  gloaming  had  come  on, 

Fifty  pipers  played  Retreat 
As  if  they  had  been  one, 

And  the  Grande  Place  of  Arras 
Hummed  with  the  Highland  drone ! 

Then  to  that  ravaged  burgh, 
Champed  into  dust  and  sand, 

Came  with  the  pipers'  playing. 
Out  of  their  own  loved  land. 

Sea-sounds  that  moan  for  sorrow 
On  a  dispeopled  strand. 

There  are  in  France  no  voices 
To  speak  of  simple  things. 

And  tell  how  winds  will  whistle 
Through  palaces  of  kings ; 

Now  came  the  truth  to  Arras 
In  the  chanter's  warblings: 

'  O  build  in  pride  your  towers. 
But  think  not  they  will  last ; 

The  tall  tower  and  the  shealing 
Alike  must  meet  the  blast, 

And  the  world  is  strewn  with  shingle 
From  dwellings  of  the  past." 

But  to  the  Grande  Place,  Arras, 
Came,  too,  the  hum  of  bees, 

That  suck  the  sea-pink's  sweetness 
From  isles  of  the  Hebrides, 

And  in  lona  fashion 
Homes  mid  old  effigies : 


WAR  VERSE 

"  Our  cells  the  monks  demolished 
To  make  their  mead  of  yore, 

And  still  though  we  be  ravished 
Each  Autumn  of  our  store, 

While  the  sun  lasts,  and  the  Hower, 
Tireless  we'll  gather  more." 

Up  then  and  spake  with  twitt'rings 

Out  of  the  chanter  reed, 
Birds  that  each  Spring  to  Appin 

Over  the  oceans  speed, 
And  in  its  ruined  castles 

Make  love  again  and  breed. 

"  Already  see  our  brothers 

Build  in  the  tottering  fane. 
Though  France  should  be  a  desert, 

\\  hile  love  and  Spring  remain, 
Men  will  come  back  to  Arras, 

And  build  and  weave  again." 

So  played  the  pipes  in  Arras 

Their  Gaelic  symphony, 
Sweet  with  old  wisdom  gathered 

In  isles  of  the  Highland  sea. 
And  eastward  toward  Cambrai 

Roared  the  artillery. 

Neil  Munro. 
Blackwood's  Mayacine. 


i8  WAR  VERSE 


AN  APOCALYPSE 

Out  of  the  North, 

Twisting  and  writhing  Hke  a  dragon  snared, 

Down  to  the  earth  the  pierced  monster  sank.     .     . 

And  therefore  some  sweet  babes  awake  this  morn 

Who  else  had  been  beyond  their  mother's  call.    .    . 

And  therefore  Gretchen  will  recall  long  years 

From  now,  her  father,  blazing  like  a  torch 

Above  the  shouts  of  darkened  London  streets. 

And  this  was  War ! 

Joy  won  by  sorrow,  life  by  answering  death ; 

Courage  with  cruel  hate  confederate ! 

Man  loyal  to  his  tribe,  but  to  his  race 

Apostate !    Treasures  squander'd  in  the  night ! 

Glory  and  shame,  despair  and  hope,  the  lights 

Of  heaven  and  hell  met  in  that  burning  point: 

I  saw  in  that  Apocalypse  the  face 

Of  War  unveiled  a  moment 

As  men  will  one  day  see  the  Face  of  God. 

Edward  Shillito. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  19 


BEFORE  BATTLE 
{Spring,  igiS) 

O  great  eternal  Spirit  of  Good, 

Whom  we,  Thy  children  men,  adore, 

Attend  the  prayer,  in  patient  Parenthood, 
We  now  in  faith  outpour. 

Now,  in  this  pregnant  waiting  hour. 

Preparing  for  the  fight  to  be. 
We  pray  Thee  aid  us  with  Thy  mighty  power 

To  purge  Thy  world  for  Thee. 

But  well  we  know  that  Thou  wilt  aid 
(Our  i)rayer  but  heartens  us  the  more)  ; 

And  now  the  Spring  winds  blow  that  Thou 
hast  made, 
Make  firm  the  fields  of  war. 

Grant  that,  inspired  as  by  Thy  breath. 
Like  some  great  gale  we,  too,  be  hurled, 

A  cleansing  force,  to  l)reak  and  sweep  to  death 
A  foul  thing  from  the  world. 

As  warriors  rush  into  the  fight 
Clas])ing  a  comrade's  stirrup  fast, 

So  clinging  to  the  chariot  of  Thy  Might, 
Shall  we  prevail  at  last. 

Nay,  more:  so  doth  Thy  power  enfold 
Our  hearts,  we  feci  thai,  closer  still. 

We  are  the  very  weapon  in  Thy  hold 
To  work  Thine  awful  Will. 


20  WAR  VERSE 

Thy  weapon !  Vibrant  through  and  through 
With  Thee !    Oh,  grant  we  bring  to  dust 

This  devil  brood,  and  build  Thy  realm  anew 
With  ruthless  thrust  on  thrust; 

That,  at  the  last,  great  Spirit  of  Good, 
'Mid  all  Thy  worlds,  this  world  and  we 

Grow  clean  and  fit  to  claim  Thy  Fatherhood — 
Or  bid  us  cease  to  be ! 

Habberton  Lulham. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  21 


THE  VOICES 
(IVritten  on  leave  in  a  Kentish  garden) 

Slow  breaks  the  hushed  June  dawn : 

The  pearl-soft  light 

Strikes  from  the  dew- wet  lawn 

Diamonds  bright, 

And,  out  of  sight. 

Poised  in  the  limpid  blue  on  quivering  wings, 

A  lark  pours  out  his  soul  to  God  and  sings 

Of  hope  and  faith  and  love  and  homely  things. 

Each  dew-kissed  rose 

Lifts  to  the  ardent  Sun  her  velvet  lip. 

The  splendor  grows, 

And  every  jeweled  tip 

Flashes  a  myriad,  golden,  mimic  suns. 

Then — on  the  stilled  air, 

Sullen  and  sinister, 

Mutter  the  Voices — the  Guns. 

Noon  lifts  his  flaming  crown: 

Faint  in  the  heat 

The  blue  hills  burn,  and  down 

The  village  street 

On  laggard  feet, 

A  carter  walks  beside  his  sweating  team. 

Pausing  to  let  them  water  at  the  stream. 

On  the  white  road  the  purple  shadows  dream, 

And  like  a  bell 

Tolled  faint  in  fairyland,  a  cuckoo's  note 

kings  from  the  dell. 

Clad  in  his  emerald  coat 

Across  the  dusty  road  a  lizard  runs. 

Then-    thrcjugh  the  heat, 

W  ilh  dull  menacing  beat. 

Mutter  the  Voices — the  Guns. 


22  WAR  VERSE 

Soft  falls  Night's  star-hung  veil: 

In  the  warm  gloom 

The  roses  sigh  and  fill 

With  rich  perfume 

The  lighted  room, 

With  wave  on  wave  of  incense  like  a  prayer. 

The  candles  burn  straight  in  the  windless  air, 

And  there  is. sound  of  laughter,  free  from  care. 

Softly  the  light 

Falls  upon  gleaming  silver  and  thin  glass 

And  damask  white. 

But — as  the  moments  pass 

And  the  talk  dies  to  silence  and  hushed  tones, 

With  shuddering  breath, 

Chanting  their  song  of  Death, 

Mutter  the  Voices — the  Guns. 

jSlackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  23 


AMERICA  AT  ST.  PAUL'S 

Destiny  knocked  at  the  door — 
"  O  men  of  the  wilderness,  speak! 

Will  you  walk  on  the  plain  as  of  yore 
Or' climb  to  the  peak?" 

The\'  replied — "  Be  the  summit  our  goal, 
For  the  Curse  lieth  dead  at  our  feet; 

Now  free,  body,  spirit  and  soul, 
Men  shall  see  us  complete  !  " 

Came  Destiny,  flaming  with  wrath — 
"  Is  the  Curse,  then,  so  deep  in  its  grave? 

The  old  world  has  straightened  its  path, 
iiut  you — y(ju  enslave." 

Then  they  ro.se,  hot  with  anger  and  shame ; 

The  land  was  ensanguined  and  torn ; 
But  out  of  the  anguish  and  flame 

True  freedom  was  born. 


Once  again  came  the  knock:  came  the  call — 
"  Lo,  the  Curse  is  incarnate  at  last. 

And  l-'reedom  must  win  or  must  fall ! 
The  die  has  been  cast. 

"  To  her  rescue,  or  yours  is  the  loss, 

If  you  bide  here  alone  on  the  height, 
And  take  not  (he  fiery  cross 
And  join  in  the  light ! 


24  WAR  VERSE 

"  See,  they  suffer  for  what  you  avow : 

See,  they  die  for  your  watchwords,  your 
creed ! 
Come  down,  lest  your  records  tell  how 
You  failed  Freedom  in  need !  " 

They  gazed  from  their  peak  with  surprise 
At  the  nations  at  grips  with  the  foe, 

That  look  of  resolve  in  their  eyes 
Which  was  theirs,  long  ago. 

With  a  throb  of  the  heart  for  their  kin, 
With  a  grasp  of  the  hand  for  their  friend, 

They  cried :  "  Let  us  in,  let  us  in ! 
We  are  yours  to  the  end ! 

**  Here  stand  we :  naught  else  can  we  do. 
Take  us,  all  that  we  have,  all  we  are ! 
We  bide  by  the  issue  with  you, 
And  this  is  our  war ! " 

Margaretta  Byrde, 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  25 


THE  ANXIOUS  DEAD 

O  gruns,  fall  silent  till  the  dead  men  hear 
Above  their  heads  the  legions  pressing  on: 

(These  fought  their  fight  in  time  of  bitter  fear 
And  died  not  knowing  how  the  day  had  gone.) 

O  flashing  muzzles,  pause,  and  let  them  see 
The  coming  dawn  that  streaks  the  sky  afar: 

Then  let  your  mighty  chorus  witness  be 

To  them,  the  Caesar,  that  we  still  make  war. 

Tell  them,  O  gims,  that  we  have  heard  their  call, 
That  we  have  sworn,  and  will  not  turn  aside, 

That  we  will  onward  till  we  win  or  fall. 

That  we  will  keep  the  faith  for  which  they  died. 

Bid  them  be  patient,  and  some  day,  anon 

Thev  shall  feel  earth  enwrapt  in  silence  deep. 

Shall  greet,  in  wonderment,  the  quiet  dawn. 
And  in  content  may  turn  them  to  their  sleep. 

John  McCrae. 


26  WAR  VERSE 


"  A  MERRY  HEART  GOES  ALL  THE  DAY  " 

I  jogged  along  the  footpath  way 
And  leaned  against  the  stile; 
"  A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day," 

Stoutly  I  sang  the  old  refrain ; 

My  own  heart  mocked  me  back  again, 
"  Yet  tire  you  in  a  mile !  " 


Well  may  I  tire,  that  stand  alone 

And  turn  a  wistful  glance 
On  each  remembered  tree  and  stone, 
Familiar  landmarks  of  a  road 
Where  once  so  light  of  heart  I  strode 
With  one  who  sleeps  in  France. 

Heavily  on  the  stile  I  lean, 

Not  as  we  leaned  of  yore, 
To  drink  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
Glory  of  green  and  blue  and  gold. 
Shadow  and  gleam  on  wood  and  wold 
That  he  will  see  no  more. 

Then  came  from  somewhere  far  afield 

A  song  of  thrush  unseen, 
And  suddenly  there  stood  revealed 
(Oh,  heart  so  merry,  song  so  true!) 
A  day  when  we  shall  walk,  we  two. 
Where  other  worlds  are  green. 

Punch. 


WAR  VERSE 


DAWN 

The  moon  had  long  since  sunk  behind  the  mists ; 

The  guns  had  ceased  awhile  their  weary  thunder; 

And  all  war's  foulest  vapors  seemed  to  rise 

In  silent  protest  to  the  peaceful  skies 

Gazing  in  wonder. 

Silently,  his  sheaves  on  either  hand, 

Death  walked  in  No-Man's  Land. 

Grimly  he  gazed  on  each,  and  carefully 

Counted  his  harvest  as  it  ripened  there, 

Many  in  tranquil  pose,  as  if  they  slept; 

While  Mother  Earth  o'er  each  her  dew  had  wept, 

Moistening  their  hair. 

And  by  each  side  a  rusty  bayonet  lay, 

Pointing  the  way. 

.Thus  he  came;  and  ever  and  anon 
Lingered  o'er  something  precious  lying  numbly, — 
Some  sodden  shapeless  thing,  which  to  the  sky 
Mutely  displayed  its  mangled  agony, — 
I'leading  humbly. 
For  this, — which  human  eyes  might   shrink  to 

scan, — 
Had  been  a  man. 

A  drowsy  sentry  saw  him  as  he  passed. 

Challenged: — and  receiving  no  reply, 

Fired  at  the  darkness; — but  the  bullet  found 

Only  the  mist — whereout  there  came  a  sound 

Of  laughing  mockery. 

And  frr)m  the  east  the  morning's  icy  breath 

Whisjjered  fjf  death. 


28  WAR  VERSE 

A  sudden  star-shell  leaped  toward  the  sky, 
Where  high  and  searchingly  its  fiery  head 
Reigned  in  brief  tyranny  and  with  its  spell 
Froze  the  black  earth — till  falteringly  it  fell 
Among  the  dead, — 
On  either  side  a  coldly  staring  eye 
Watching  it  die. 

Wearily  the  sun  climbed  to  his  post 

To  watch  the  struggling  world  as  on  it  rolls 

Dripping  with  blood  from  youth's  best  vintage 

pressed, 
And  ceaselessly  from  out  its  heaving  breast 
Breathing  souls.     .     .     . 
Up  out  from  yonder  where  the  dead  repose 
A  lark  arose.     .     .     . 

P.  S.  M. 

Blackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  29 


CALLED  BACK 

You  send  them  forth  to  do  your  work,  whatever  it  might 

be, 
The  work  of  Mother  England  beyond  the  sundering  sea  ; 
And  North  and  South  and  East  and  West  they  bent  them 

to  the  yoke, 
To  toil  and  play  in  the  English  way  among  the  alien  folk. 
Some  passing  thought  you  spared  them  as  they  lived  their 

strenuous  days ; 
Some  scanty  dole  you  sometimes  gave  of  honor  or  of 

praise ; 
Some  dim  idea  you  had  of  what  they  wrought  with  brain 

and  hand ; 
And  mostly  you  forgot  them,  O  heedless  Motherland. 

But  scorching  in  the  troi)ic  blaze,  or  shivering  in  the  snow, 

From  the  Andes  to  the  Altai,  from  the  Line  to  the  Arctic 
floe, 

They  felt  the  touch  of  the  island  air,  the  moist,  mist- 
laden  breeze. 

The  scented  ICnglish  hedgerows,  the  whispering  English 
trees. 

So  when  it  struck,  the  fateful  hour,  and  liritain  called 

her  sons. 
To  stand  to  arms  and  hold  the  gate  against  the  crashing 

guns, 
They  heard  the  call  across  the  world;  bv  rail  and  slii]) 

they  came, 
To  fight  and  die  for  their  fathers'  flag,  and  the  pride  of 

the  ICnglish  name. 

From  bungalow  and  cutchery,  from  i)ort  and  dock  they 
sped, 

From  cattle-ranch  and  station,  frr)m  mine  and  engine- 
shed  ; 


30  WAR  VERSE 

From  all  the  Continents  they  flocked,  a  mixed  and  various 

crew, 
Sized  up  together  on  parade,  and  shared  the  ration  stew ; 
And  Tompkins  Sahib  of  Bangalore  met  Senor  Jones  of 

Rio, 
And  both  were  taught  their  drill  by  Sergeant  Johnson 

from  Ohio. 

And  some  will  go  back  on  the  old  trail,  when  the  fighting 

time  is  past, 
And  do  their  work,  and  take  their  wage,  and  come  to 

rest  at  last. 
And  some  will  not  go  back  again,  their  wandering  days 

are  done, 
They'll  never  feel  the  Northern  wild,  nor  the  bite  of  the 

Southern  sun. 
They  sleep  beside  the  Meuse  and  Somme,  beneath  the 

Flanders  loam ; 
The  exiles  of  the  Motherland  who  found  their  way  to 

Home. 

Orellius. 

The  London  Chronicle. 


WAR  VERSE  31 


THE  GUNS  IN  SUSSEX 

Lic^ht  careen  of  grass  and  richer  green  of  bush 

Slope  upwards  to  the  darkest  green  of  iir; 
How  still !     How  deathly  still !    And  yet  the  hush 

Shivers  and  trembles  with  some  subtle  stir,  ' 
Some  far-off  throbbing,  like  a  muffled  drum, 

Beaten  in  broken  rhythm  oversea, 
To  play  the  last  funereal  march  of  some 

Who  die  to-day  that  Europe  may  be  free. 

The  deep-blue  heaven,  curving  from  the  green, 

Spans  with  its  shimmering  arch  the  flowery  zone; 
In  all  God's  earth  there  is  no  gentler  scene, 

And  yet  I  hear  that  awesome  monotone; 
Above  the  circling  midge's  piping  shrill, 

And  the  long  droning  of  the  questing  bee, 
Above  all  sultry  summer  sounds,  it  still 

Mutters  its  ceaseless  menaces  to  me. 

And  as  I  listen  all  the  garden  fair 

Darkens  to  plains  of  misery  and  death. 
And  looking  past  the  roses  I  see  there 

Those  sordid  furrows,  with  the  rising  breath 
Of  all  things  foul  and  black.     My  heart  is  hot 

Within  me  as  I  view  it,  and  I  cry, 
P.ettcr  the  misery  of  these  men's  lot 

'J'han  all  the  peace  that  comes  to  such  as  I !  " 

And  strange  that  in  the  pauses  of  the  sound 

I  hear  the  children's  laughter  as  they  roam, 
And  then  their  mother  calls,  and  all  around 

Rise  uj)  the  gentle  murmurs  of  a  home. 
But  still  I  gaze  afar,  and  at  the  sight 

My  whole  soul  softens  to  its  heartfelt  prayer, 
Spirit  of  Justice,  Thou  for  whom  they  fight. 

Ah,  turn,  in  mercy,  to  our  lads  out  there ! 


32  WAR  VERSE 

"  The  f  reward  peoples  have  deserved  Thy  wrath, 

And  on  them  is  the  Judgment  as  of  old. 
But  if  they  wandered  from  the  hallowed  path, 

Yet  is  their  retribution  manifold. 
Behold  all  Europe  writhing  on  the  rack, 

The  sins  of  fathers  grinding  down  the  sons, 
How  long,  O  Lord !  "    He  sends  no  answer  back, 

But  still  I  hear  the  mutter  of  the  guns. 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle. 
The  Times. 


WAR  VERSE  33 


THE  CALL  TO  ARMS  IN  OUR  STREET 

There's  a  woman  sobs  her  heart  out, 

With  her  head  against  the  door, 

For  the  man  that's  called  to  leave  her, 

— God  have  pity  on  the  poor! 
But  it's  beat,  drums,  beat, 
While  the  lads  march  down  the  street. 
And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow, 
Keep  your  tears  until  they  go. 

There's  a  crowd  of  little  children 
That  march  along  and  shout. 
For  it's  fine  to  play  at  soldiers 
Now  their  fathers  are  called  out. 

So  it's  beat,  drums,  beat ; 

But  who'll  find  them  food  to  eat  ? 

And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow. 

Oh,  it's  little  children  know. 

There's  a  mother  who  stands  watching 
For  the  last  look  of  her  son, 
A  worn  poor  widow  woman, 
And  he  her  only  one. 

PiUt  it's  beat,  drums,  beat. 

Though  Ciod  knows  when  we  shall  meet ; 

And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow, 

We  must  smile  and  cheer  them  so. 


There's  a  young  girl  who  stands  laughing. 
For  she  thinks  a  war  is  grand, 
And  it's  fine  to  sec  the  lads  pass, 
And  it's  fine  to  hear  the  band. 


34  WAR  VERSE 

So  it's  beat,  drums,  beat, 
To  the  fall  of  many  feet; 
And  it's  blow,  trumpets,  blow, 
God  go  with  you  where  you  go. 

W.  M.  Letts. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  35 


A  CAROL  FROM  FLANDERS 
J914 

In  Flanders  on  llie  Christmas  morn 

The  trenched  foemen  lay, 
The  German  and  the  Briton  born — 

And  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

The  red  sun  rose  on  fields  accurst, 

The  gray  fog  fled  away ; 
But  neither  cared  to  fire  the  first, 

For  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

They  called  from  each  to  each  across 

The  hideous  disarray 
(For  terrible  had  been  their  loss)  : 

"  O,  this  is  Christmas  Day !  " 

Their  rifles  all  they  set  aside, 

One  impulse  to  obey; 
'Twas  just  the  men  on  either  side, 

Just  men — and  Christmas  Day. 

They  dug  the  graves  for  all  their  dead 

And  over  them  did  i)ray ; 
And  Englishman  and  German  said: 

"  How  strange  a  Christmas  Day !  " 

Between  the  trenches  then  they  met, 
.Shook  hands,  and  e'en  did  play 

At  games  on  which  their  hearts  are  set 
On  hajjpy  Christmas  Day. 

Not  all  the  I'jnperors  and  Kings, 

Financiers,  and  they 
Who  rule  us  couUl  jircvent  these  things- 

I'or  it  was  Christmas  Day. 


36  WAR  VERSE 

O  ye  who  read  this  truthful  rime 
From  Flanders,  kneel  and  say : 

God  speed  the  time  when  every  day 
Shall  he  as  Christmas  Day. 

Frederick  Niven. 
The  Athenaeum. 


WAR  VERSE 


37 


A  CHANT  OF  EMPIRE 


Home-Dzvcllcrs 

Gray  Mother  of  mig;hly  nations, 

Co-heir  with  the  traveled  sun 
Whose  Hfe  is  the  hfe  of  many, 

Yet  wells  from  the  heart  of  one, 
Give  ear  to  thy  children's  voices 

Now  borne  to  thee  swift  and  strong, 
As  the  note  of  their  exultation 

Upsoars  on  the  wings  of  song ! 

O  spell  of  the  breath  of  Music 

In  souls  that  have  ears  to  hear, 
That  breaketh  all  bars  asunder 

And  bringeth  the  distant  near ! 
For  lo !  at  her  wand's  uplifting 

The  North  and  the  South  are  spanned, 
And  East  is  with  West  united, 

And  all  with  the  Motherland ! 


Empire-Builders 

Ah  !  that  is  the  word 

We  fain  had  heard 
When  the  wilderness  hemmed  us  in, 
As  we  felled  the  forest  or  tilled  the  fen, 
And  far  from  the  holy  haunts  of  men 
Lcjngcd  sore  for  the  da\'  to  be  once  again 
Made  one  with  our  kith  and  kin. 

O  heart,  now  listen  ! 

n  li|)s,  be  dumb ! 

The  day  was  coming, 

The  day  has  come ! 


38  WAR  VERSE 

Home-Dwellers 

And  ye  that  marvel  whereof  we  sing, 
Look  up  and  behold  a  wondrous  thing, 
How  folk  upon  folk  adult  and  free, 
Builders  of  Britain  beyond  the  sea. 

Whose  valor  and  worth 

Enzone  the  earth, 
Yet  babe-like  yearn  to  their  Mother's  knee, 
With  home-felt  rapture  renown  her  reign. 
And  thrill  to  the  tones  of  her  triumph-strain. 

All  Voices  United 

Hail  fair  and  majestic  Empire, 

From  ages  beyond  our  ken 
The  hope  and  the  home  of  Freedom, 

The  love  and  the  fear  of  men ! 
For  one  with  the  seas  thy  splendor, 

And  one  with  the  winds  thy  way, 
And  the  web  of  thine  endless  story 

Is  woven  by  night  and  day 
Of  Ocean's  infinite  travail. 

Criss-crossed  with  the  to  and  fro 
Of  a  thousand  keels  returning, 

A  thousand  that  outward  go; 
For  a  might  that  is  elemental 

Hath  builded  thee  there  sublime. 
And  he  that  would  break  thy  bulwarks 

Must  carry  the  walls  of  Time. 

James  Rhoades. 
The  Fortnightly  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  39 


CHARING  CROSS 


y  L" 


I  went  along  the  river-side  to-day, 

Under  the  railway  Bridge  at  Charing  Cross, 

Where  many  such  as  you  are  swept  away 

And  we  are  left  to  wonder  at  your  loss. 

The  station  echoes  with  your  ghostly  feet ; 

Your  laughing  voices  cling  about  each  wall; 

You  entered  gaily  from  the  sunlit  street 

To  pass  into  the  sun  again  and  fall. 

The  train  slid  out  under  the  April  sky 

And  London's  throbbing  heart  was  left  behind; 

And  many  more  will  follow  you  to  die, 

Crossing  the  silent  river,  there  to  find 

Host  upon  hij>[,  ilieir  comrades  glorified. 

Saluting  them  upon  the  other  side. 

Marian  Allen. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


40  WAR  VERSE 


THE  WOMAN'S  TOLL 

O  Mother,  mourning  for  the  son  who  keeps 

His  last  dread  watch  by  unfamiliar  streams, 
Or  for  that  other,  gay  of  heart,  who  sleeps 

Where  the  great  waters  guard  his  secret  dreams, 
Amid  your  tears  take  comfort  for  a  space, 
They  showed  them  worthy  of  their  island  race. 

O  Wife,  who  heard  across  the  wintry  sea 

Death's  trumpet  shrill  for  him  who  goes  no  more 
Riding  at  dawn  with  that  brave  company 
Whose  fellowship  no  morning  shall  restore. 

In  its  dark  heart  your  bitterest  hour  shall  bring 
Scents  from  the  scattered  petals  of  the  spring. 

O  Maid,  with  wondering  eyes  untouched  of  grief, 
War's  dreadful  shadow  spares  your  innocent  years, 
Yet  shall  you  deem  the  ways  of  sunshine  brief. 
Paying  long  hence  your  toll  of  hidden  tears 
For  love  that  perished  ere  the  web  was  spun. 
And  children  that  shall  never  see  the  sun. 

Ruth  Duffin. 
The  Nation. 


WAR  VERSE  41 


PEACE 

Now,  God  be  thanked  Who  has  matched  us  with  His  hour, 

And  caught  our  youth,  and  wakened  us  from  sleeping, 
With  hand  made  sure,  clear  eye,  and  sharpened  power, 

To  turn,  as  swimmers  into  cleanness  leaping, 
Glad  from  a  world  grown  old  and  cold  and  weary, 

Leave  the  sick  hearts  that  honor  could  not  move, 
And  half-men.  and  their  dirty  songs  and  dreary, 

And  all  the  little  emptiness  of  love ! 

Oh !  we,  who  have  known  shame,  we  have  found  release 
there. 
Where  there's  no  ill,  no  grief,  but  sleep  has  mending. 
Naught  broken  save  this  body,  lost  but  breath  ; 
Nothing  to  shake  the  laughing  heart's  long  peace  there 
But  only  agony,  and  that  has  ending; 

And  the  worst  friend  and  enemy  is  but  Death. 

Rupert  Brooke. 


^ 


42  WAR  VERSE 


FOR  THEE  THEY  DIED 

For  thee  their  pilgrim  swords  were  tried, 

Thy  flaming  word  was  in  their  scrips, 
They  battled,  they  endured,  they  died 

To  make  a  new  Apocalypse. 
Master  and  Maker,  God  of  Right, 

The  soldier  dead  are  at  thy  gate. 
Who  kept  the  spears  of  honor  bright 

And  freedom's  house  inviolate. 

John  Drinkwater. 


WAR  VERSE  43 


A  CROSS  IN  FLANDERS 

In  the  face  of  death,  they  say,  he  joked — he  had  no 
fear: 
His  comrades,   when   they  laid  him  in  a   Flanders 
grave. 
Wrote  on  a  rough-hewn  cross — a  Calvary  stood  near — 
"  Without  a  fear  he  gave 

"  His  life,  cheering  his  men,  with  laughter  on  his  lips." 
So  wrote  the\',  mourning  him.     Yet  was  there  only 
one 
Who  fully  understood  his  laughter,  his  gay  quips, 
One  only,  she  alone — 

She  who,  not  so  long  since,  when  love  was  new-con- 
fessed, 
Herself   toyed   with    light    laughter   while   her   eyes 
were  dim, 
And  jested,  while  with  reverence  despite  her  jest 
She  worshipped  God  and  him. 

She  knew — O  Love,  O  Death  ! — his  soul  had  been  at 
grips 
With  the  most  solemn  things.     For  she,  was  she  not 
dear? 
Yes,  he  was  brave,  most  brave,  with  laughter  on  his  lips. 
The  braver  for  his  fear! 

G.  Rostrl:vuk  Hamilton. 
The  Athctiaciim. 


44  WAR  VERSE 


THE  DEAD  TO  THE  LIVING 

O  you  that  still  have  rain  and  sun, 
Kisses  of  children  and  of  wife, 
And  the  good  earth  to  tread  upon. 
And  the  mere  sweetness  that  is  life, 
Forget  not  us,  who  gave  all  these 
For  something  dearer,  and  for  you ! 
Think  in  what  cause  we  crossed  the  seas ! 
Remember,  he  who  fails  the  challenge 
Fails  us  too. 

Now  in  the  hour  that  shows  the  strong — 
The  soul  no  evil  powers  affray — 
Drive  straight  against  embattled  Wrong: 
Faith  knows  but  one,  the  hardest,  way. 
Endure ;  the  end  is  worth  the  throe. 
Give,  give ;  and  dare,  and  again  dare ! 
On,  to  that  Wrong's  great  overthrow ! 
We  are  with  you,  of  you ;  we  the  pain  and 
Victory  share. 

Laurence  Binyon. 
The  Times. 


WAR  VERSE  45 


DEVON  MEN 

From  Bideford  to  Appledore  the  meadows  lie  aglow 

With  kingcup  and  buttercup  that  tiout  the  summer  snow ; 

And  crooked-back  and  silver-head  shall  mow  the  grass 
to-day, 

And  lasses  turn  and  toss  it  till  it  ripen  into  hay ; 

For  gone  are  all  the  careless  youth  did  reap  the  land  of 
yore, 

The  lithe  men  and  long  men, 
The  brown  men  and  strong  men, 

The  men  that  hie  from  Bideford  and  ruddy  Appledore. 

From  Bideford  and  Appledore  they  swept  the  sea  of  old 

With  cross-bow  and  falconet  to  tap  the  Spaniard's  gold; 

They  sped  away  with  dauntless  Drake  to  traffic  on  the 
Alain, 

To  trick  the  drowsy  galleon  and  loot  the  treasure  train ; 

For  fearless  were  the  gallant  hands  that  pulled  the  sweep- 
ing oar, 

The  strong  men,  the  free  men, 
The  bold  men,  the  seamen,  ^ 

The  men  that  sailed  from  Bideford  and  ruddy  Appledore. 

From  Bideford  and  Appledore  in  craft  of  subtle  gray 
Are   strcjng   hearts   and   steady   hearts   to   kee[)   the   sea 

to-day ; 
So  well  may  fare  the  garden  where  the  cider-apples  bloom 
And  Summer  weaves  her  color-threads  upon  a  golden 

lr)om  ; 
For  ready  are  the  tawny  hands  that  guard  tiic   Devon 

shore, 

The  cool  men,  the  bluff  men, 
The  keen  men.  ihc  tough  men, 
The  men  that  hie  from  Bidefcnd  and  ruddy  Appledore! 

Punch. 


46  WAR  VERSE 


GRAY  GAUNTLET 

Gray  Gauntlet,  you  of  the  wristlets  wrought 

Of  home-spun  soft  and  gray, 
Do  you  hear  the  flashing  needles  click 
Three  thousand  miles  away  ? 
Oh,  it's  purl  and  plain, 

And  a  toss  of  the  arm. 
For  freeing  the  endless  thread: 

And  mystic  whisp'rings  with  each  stitch 
Too  sacred  to  e'er  be  said. 

Gray  Gauntlet,  you  of  the  sword  must  go. 

We  of  the  spindle  stay: 
And  our  needles  speed  that  our  lads  may  march 
Mail-coated  in  woolen  gray. 
Oh,  it's  slip  and  bind. 

And  seam  and  count, 
And  turn  the  heels  with  care: 

No  craven  fears  in  the  meshes  hide 
But  only  a  murmured  prayer. 

Elmina  Atkinson. 
The  Bookman. 


WAR  VERSE 


47 


ALL'S  WELL! 

Watchman,  watchman,  what  of  the  night. 

What  of  the  night  to  tell  ? 
There  are  widows  weeping,  and  babes  affright, 

And  a  ceaseless  burial  bell. 
But  the  hand  that  holds  the  gun 

Still  shakes  not ; 
And  the  line  drops  one  by  one. 

Yet  breaks  not. 
Of  the  blood  so  nobly  poured 
There  shall  surely  be  reward. 
In  the  name  of  the  Lord, 
All's  Well ! 

F.   W.    BOURDILLON. 


48  WAR  VERSE 


HALF  A  SCORE  O'  SAILORMEN 

Half  a  score  o'  sailormen  that  want  to  sail  once  more, 
Cruising  around  the  waterside  with  the  Peter  at  the  fore, 
Half  a  score  o'  sailormen  the  sea'll  never  drown 
(Seven  days  in  open  boats  a-drifting  up  and  down!), 
Out  to  find  another  ship  and  sail  from  London  Town. 

Half  a  score  o'  sailormen  broke  and  on  the  rocks, 
Linking  down   Commercial   Road,   tramping  round   the 

Docks, 
Half  a  score  o'  sailormen,  torpedoed  thrice  before — 
Once  was  in  the  Channel  chops,  once  was  off  the  Nore, 
Last  was  in  the  open  sea  a  hundred  mile  from  shore. 

Half  a  score  o'  sailormen  that  want  to  sail  again — 
And  her  cargo's  all  aboard  her,  and  it's  blowing  up  for 

rain ! 
Half  a  score  o'  sailormen  that  won't  come  home  to  tea, 
For  she's  dropping  down  the  river  with  the  Duster  flying 

free, 
Down  the  London  River  on  the  road  to  the  open  sea ! 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  49 


TO  ENGLAND 

\\'hen  the  agony  is  done  and  you  are  free 
To  lay  aside  the  sword,  when  all  but  those 
Who  died  to  save  you  from  your  ruthless  foes 
Come  home,  what  will  you  be? 

Will  you  be  honest  with  yourself  at  last, 
And  look  the  world  full  in  its  ugly  face, 
Unboastful  of  your  goodness  and  your  grace, 
When  this  ordeal  is  past? 

Will  you  have  judgment,  with  clear,  pain-purged  sense, 
To  weigh  things  in  the  balance?    Some  that  seem 
Of  large  significance  will  kick  the  beam, 
Like  coins  of  false  pretense; 

Others,  in  aspect  dull,  with  no  display 

To  tempt  ambition,  will  draw  down  the  scale, 
However  counterpoised;  and  not  for  sale 
At  any  cost  are  they. 

Why  do  you  suffer  anguish?    Not  for  forms 
Religious  or  political  you  care 
Now ;  but  for  Freedom  and  your  Homes  you  dare 
To  brave  these  storms. 

Keep  then  in  sight  what  war  has  made  you  see ; 
Think  no  small  thoughts  again;  not  faint  or  far 
Shines,  like  the  star  of  Bethlehem,  your  star 
Of  glorious  destiny. 

Francis  Coutts. 
The  Outlook. 


50  WAR  VERSE 


THE  EVERLASTING  ARMS 

The  tides  of  Death  go  swiftly  home 

And  the  nets  of  Pain  are  spread : 
The  blood  runs  warm  on  the  cold,  cold  loam 

In  desolate  fields  of  dead. 

The  shadows  fall  and  the  great  guns  call, 

But  there  with  silent  tread 
His  footsteps  go  through  the  lanes  of  woe, 

White  Lord  of  the  Thorn-Crowned  Head. 

From  out  of  the  peace  of  God's  abode 

He  comes  when  brave  men  fail, 
His  limbs  oppressed  of  an  ancient  load — 

The  spear  and  the  denting  nail : 

But  His  eyes  are  bright  as  an  altar-light 

In  the  calm  of  an  altar-rail, 
And  the  stricken  sing  to  see  Him  bring 

His  gift  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

And  some  men  wake  on  their  Comrade's  breast, 

And  some  men  live  to  praise, 
But  some  fare  forth  through  the  dark  of  the  West 

With  the  Christ  of  their  childhood  days — 

To  stand  fidl  free  in  His  Chivalry — 

To  dwell  in  His  love  always; 
And  they  proudly  go — with  their  zvounds  aglow 

Transfigured  in  His  gaze. 

A.  G.  Prys- Jones. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  51 


"MISSING" 

When  the  anxious  hearts  say  "Where?" 
He  doth  answer  "  In  My  care." 

"  Is  it  Hfe  or  is  it  death?" 

"  Wait,"  He  whispers.     "  Child,  liave  faith  !  " 

"  Did  they  need  love's  tenderness  ?  " 
"  Is  there  love  like  Mine  to  bless?" 

"  Were  they  frightened  at  the  last  ?  " 
"  No,  the  sting  of  death  is  past." 

"  Did  a  thought  of  '  Home-Love  '  rise?  " 
"  I  looked  down  thro'  Mother-eyes." 

"  Saviour,  tell  us,  where  are  they  ?  " 
"  In  My  keeping,  night  and  day." 

"  Tell  us,  tell  us,  how  it  stands." 

"  None  shall  pluck  them  from  My  Hands." 

The  Bookman. 


52  WAR  VERSE 


THE  "ORION'S"  FIGUREHEAD  AT  WHITEHALL 

All  wind  and  rain,  the  clouds  fled  fast  across  the  evening 

sky — 
Whitehall  aglimmer  like  a  beach  the  tide  has  scarce  left 

dry ; 
And  there  I  saw  the  figurehead  which  once  did  grace  the 
bow 

Of  the  old  bold  Orion, 
The  fighting  old  Orion, 
In  the  days  that  are  not  now. 

And  I  wondered  did  he  dream  at  all  of  those  great  fights 

of  old, 
And    ships    from    out    whose    oaken    sides    Trafalgar's 

thunder  rolled; 
There  was  Ajax,  Neptune,  Temeraire,  Revenge,  Levia- 
than, 

With  the  old  bold  Orion, 
The  fighting  old  Orion, 
When  Victory  led  the  van. 

Old  ships,  their  ribs  are  ashes  now;  but  still  the  names 

they  bore 
And  still  the  hearts  that  manned  them  live  to  sail  the  seas 

once  more, 
To  sail  and  fight,  and  watch  and  ward,  and  strike  as  stout 
a  blow 

As  the  old  bold  Orion, 
The  fighting  old  Orion, 
In  the  wars  of  long  ago. 

They  watch,  the  gaunt  gray  fighting  ships,  in  silence  bleak 

and  stern ; 
They  wait — not  yet,  not  yet  has  dawned  the  day  for  which 

they  burn ! 


WAR  VERSE  5^ 

They're  watching,  waiting  for  the  word  that  sets  their 
tluinders  free, 

Like  the  old  bold  Orion, 
The  fighting  old  Orion, 
\\  hen  Nelson  sailed  the  sea. 

Oh,  waiting  is  a  weary  game,  but  Nelson  played  it  too. 
And,  be  it  late  or  be  it  soon,  such  deeds  are  yet  to  do 
As  never  your  starry  namesake  saw  who  walked  the  mid- 
night skv — 

Old  bold  Orion, 
I'ighting  old  Orion, 
Of  the  great  old  years  gone  by. 

And  be  the  game  a  w^aiting  game  we'll  play  it  with  the 

best ; 
Or  be  the  game  a  watching  game  we'll  watch  and  never 

rest; 
But  the  fighting  game  it  pays  for  all  when  the  guns  begin 
to  play 

(Old,  bold  Orion, 
Fighting  old  Orion) 
Like  the  guns  of  yesterday. 

Punch. 


54  WAR  VERSE 


IT  CANNOT  BE 

It  cannot  be  that,  having  seen  the  day, 

We  should  endure  the  tyranny  of  the  night  ; 
For  if  we  have  not  sinned  against  the  Hght, 

Nor  made  an  idol  of  the  sword,  as  they, 

The  powers  of  darkness  set  in  fierce  array 

Shall  not  o'ermaster  us.     The  sword  shall  smite 
Its  proud  idolaters,  and  all  their  might 

Shall  wither,  and  their  glory  pass  away. 

No  more  shall  lawless  force  be  throned  as  God, 
The  troubled  nations  of  the  earth  no  more 

Shall  humbly  wait  upon  a  despot's  nod. 

And  when  the  sacred  cause  for  which  they  bled 
Is  surely  stablished,  we  will  turn  and  pour 

Libation  to  the  uncomplaining  dead. 

F.  E.  Maitland. 
The  London  Times.. 


WAR  VERSE  55 


THE  INWARD  CLARION 

\\'hen  I  behold  dear  youth  sent  down  to  death ; 
And  homely  cities  barbarously  sacked; 
Christ's  followers  here  denying  what  He  saith, 
Christian  in  babbled  word,  heathen  in  act ; 
Nations  all  bloody  from  fraternal  strife; 
And  beauty  powerless  as  a  broken  wing; 
Then  I  despair  of  faith  and  art  and  life — 
Until  I  hear  this  inward  clarion  ring: 
"  Rate  not  too  richly  peace  and  happiness, 
Sorrow  and  war  have  each  their  lively  sap, 
Eternal  truth  un foiled  by  temporal  stress, 
Immortal  being  unharmed  by  mortal  hap." 
Then  do  I  know  that  nothing  can  work  wrong 
To  men  or  man,  nor  vex  them  overlong. 

Wallace  Bertram  Nichols. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


56  WAR  VERSE 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLES 

The  Pharaohs  trampled  on  us  in  their  day, 
As  slaves  we  trod  the  streets  of  Babylon, 

The  Roman  Eagles  found  in  us  their  prey. 
Yet  we  remain,  and  all  our  lords  are  gone. 

Innumerable  as  the  starry  host, 

Or  sand  of  the  seashore,  the  Persian  came ; 

We  met  him  undismayed  by  threat  and  boast, 
And  flung  him  back  to  ruin  and  to  shame. 

Between  the  brimming  sea  and  level  land, 

We  learned  the  secret  of  the  strong  and  free, 

Not  Philip's  might,  not  Alva's  ruthless  hand. 
Could  rob  us  of  our  birthright — liberty. 

And  ye,  O  few  in  numbers,  great  of  heart ! 

In  you  hath  glowed  once  more  the  undying  flame, 
Loss,  anguish,  death  itself,  have  been  your  part, 

Loss  could  not  daunt  you,  death  nor  anguish 
tame. 

In  you  the  heroic  past  hath  lived  again, 

Through  you  the  days  to  come  shall  fairer  be, 

Nor  one  of  all  your  brave  have  fallen  in  vain, 
O  little  people  of  the  Northern  sea ! 

B.  Paul  Neuman. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  57 


IN  TIME  OF  WAR 

I  dreamed  (God  pity  babes  at  play) 

How  I  should  love  past  all  romance, 
And  how  to  him  beloved  should  say, 
As  heroes'  women  say,  perchance, 
When  the  deep  drums  awake — 
"  Go  forth  :  do  gloriously  for  my  dear  sake." 

But  now  I  render,  blind  with  fear, 

No  lover  made  of  dreams,  but  You, 
O  You — so  commonplace,  so  dear, 
So  knit  with  all  I  am  or  do ! 
Now,  braver  thought  I  lack : 
Onlv  God  bring  vou  back — God  bring  you 
back ! 

Lesbia  Tiianet. 
The  Bookman. 


58  WAR  VERSE 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD 
(Seen  from  the  Train) 

I  saw  the  spires  of  Oxford 

As  I  was  passing  by, 

The  gray  spires  of  Oxford 

Against  a  pearl-gray  sky. 

My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 

Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 

The  golden  years  and  gay, 

The  hoary  Colleges  look  down 

On  careless  boys  at  play. 

But  when  the  bugles  sounded  war 

They  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river, 

The  cricket  field,  the  quad. 

The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford 

To  seek  a  bloody  sod — 

They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 

For  country  and  for  God. 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 
,    Who  laid  your  good  lives  down. 
Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 
Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 
God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town. 

W.  M.  Letts. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  59 


BEFORE  MARCHING,  AND  AFTER 
(III  Memoriam:  F.  IT.  G.) 


/ 


Orion  swung  southward  aslant 

Where  the  starved  Egdon  pine-trees  had  thinned, 

The  rieiads  aloft  seemed  to  pant 

With  ilie  heather  that  twitched  in  the  wind; 
But  he  looked  on  indifferent  to  sights  such  as  these. 
Unswayed  by  love,  friendship,  home  joy  or  home  sorrow, 
And  wondered  to  what  he  would  march  on  the  morrow. 

The  crazed  household  clock  with  its  whirr 

Rang  midnight  within  as  he  stood. 

He  heard  the  low  sighing  of  her 

Who  had  striven  from  his  birth  for  his  good ; 
But  he  still  only  asked  the  spring  starlight,  the  lireeze, 
What  great  thing  or  small  thing  his  history  would  borrow 
From  that  Game  with  Death  he  would  play  on  the  morrow. 

When  the  heath  wore  the  robe  of  late  summer. 
And  the  fuchsia-bells,  hot  in  the  sun, 
Hung  red  by  the  door,  a  quick  comer 
Brought  tidings  that  marcliing  was  done 
For  him  who  had  joined  in  that  game  overseas 
Where  Death  stood  to  win  ;  though  his  memory  would 

borrow 
A  brightness  therefrom  not  to  die  on  the  morrow. 

Thomas  Hardy. 
September,  iQi^. 
The  Fortnightly  Review. 


6o  WAR  VERSE 


NON-COMBATANTS 

Never  of  us  be  said 

That  we  reluctant  stood 

As  sullen  children,  and  refused  to  dance 

To  the  keen  pipe  that  sounds  across  the  fields  of 

France. 
Though  shrill  the  note  and  wild, 
Though  hard  the  steps  and  slow, 
The  dancing  floor  defiled. 
The  measure  full  of  woe, 
And  dread 

The  solemn  figure  that  the  dancers  tread, 
We  faltered  not.     Of  us,  this  word  shall  not  be 

said. 
Never  of  us  be  said 
We  had  no  war  to  wage, 
Because  our  womanhood, 
Because  the  weight  of  age, 
Held  us  in  servitude. 
None  sees  us  fight, 
Yet  we  in  the  long  night 
Battle  to  give  release 
To  all  whom  we  must  send  to  seek  and  die  for 

peace. 
When  they  have  gone,  we  in  a  twilit  place 
Meet  Terror  face  to  face. 
And  strive 

With  him,  that  we  may  save  our  fortitude  alive. 
Theirs  be  the  hard,  but  ours  the  lonely  bed. 
Nought  were  we  spared — of  us,  this  word  shall  not 

be  said. 
Never  of  us  be  said 
We  failed  to  give  God-speed  to  our  adventurous 

dead. 


WAR  VERSE  6t 

Not  in  self -pitying  mood 

We  saw  them  go, 

When  they  set  forth  on  those  spread  wings  of  pain : 

So  glad,  so  young, 

As  birds  whose  fairest  lays  are  yet  unsung 

Dart  to  the  height 

And  ihence  pour  down  their  passion  of  delight, 

Their  passii.g  into  melody  was  turned. 

So  were  our  hearts  uplifted  from  the  low, 

Our  griefs  to  rapture  burned ; 

And,  mounting  with  the  music  of  that  throng, 

Cutting  a  path  athwart  inlinity, 

Our  puzzled  eyes 

Achieved  the  healing  skies 

To  hnd  again 

Each  winged  spirit  as  a  speck  of  song 

Embosomed  in  Thy  deep  eternity. 

Though  from  our  homely  fields  that  feathered  joy 

has  fled 
We  murmur  not.     Of  us,  this  word  shall  not  be 

said. 

Evelyn  Undf.riiill. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


62  WAR  VERSE 


IN  THE  MORNING 

Back  from  battle,  torn  and  rent, 
Listing  bridge  and  stanchion"  !:;ent 

By  the  angry  sea. 
By  Thy  guiding  mercy  sent, 
Fruitful  was  the  road  we  went — 

Back  from  battle  we. 

If  Thou  hadst  not  been,  O  Lord,  behind  our  feeble  arm, 
If  Thy  hand  had  not  been  there  to  slam  the  lyddite  home, 
When  against  us  men  arose  and  sought  to  work  us  harm, 
We  had  gone  to  death,  O  Lord,  in  spouting  rings  of  foam. 

Heaving  sea  and  cloudy  sky 
Saw  the  battle  flashing  by. 

As  Thy  foeman  ran. 
By  Thy  grace,  that  made  them  fly, 
We  have  seen  two  hundred  die 

Since  the  fight  began. 

If  our  cause  had  not  been  Thine,  for  Thy  eternal  Right, 
If  the  foe  in  place  of  us  had  fought  for  Thee,  O  Lord ! 
If  Thou  hadst  not  guided  us  and  drawn  us  there  to  fight 
We  never  should  have  closed  with  them — Thy  seas  are 
dark  and  broad. 


Through  the  iron  rain  they  fled. 
Bearing  home  the  tale  of  dead. 

Flying  from  Thy  sword. 
After-hatch  to  fo'c's'le  head, 
We  have  turned  their  decks  to  red, 

By  Thy  help,  O  Lord ! 


WAR  VERSE  63 

It  was  not  by  our  feeble  sword  that  they  were  overthrown, 
r>ut  Thy  right  hand  that  dashed  them  down,  the  servants 

of  the  proud; 
It  was  not  arm  of  ours  that  saved,  but  Thine,  O  Lord, 

alone, 
When  down  the  line  the  guns  began,  and  sang  Thy  praise 

aloud. 

Sixty  miles  of  running  fight, 
Finished  at  the  dawning  light. 

Off  the  Zuider  Zee. 
Thou  that  helped  throughout  the  night 
\\'eary  hand  and  aching  sight. 

Praise,  O  Lord,  to  Thee. 

Klaxon. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


64  WAR  VERSE 


"  LEAVE  HER,  JOHNNIE !  " 

A  hundred  miles  from  the  Longships'  Ught — 

Leave  her,  Johmiie,  leave  her ! 
And  blowing  up  for  a  dirty  night — 

And  it's  time  for  us  to  leave  her ! 

Down  by  the  head  and  settling  fast — 
Her  name  and  number's  up  at  last, 
And  it's  time  for  us  to  leave  her !   ' 

It  isn't  the  sea  she's  sailed  so  long, 
It  isn't  the  wind  that's  used  her  wTong, 
But  it's  time  for  us  to  leave  her ! 

We's  pumped  her  out  with  a  right  good  will, 
A  day  and  a  night,  and  she's  sinking  still, 
And  it's  time  for  us  to  leave  her ! 

She's  smashed  above  and  she's  stove  below. 
And  there's  nothing  to  do  but  roll  and  go, 
For  it's  time  for  us  to  leave  her ! 

A  hundred  miles  from  the  Longships'  light — 
Leave  her,  Johnnie,  leave  her ! 

And  blowing  up  for  a  dirty  night — 
It's  time  for  us  to  leave  her. 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
The  London  Chronicle. 


WAR  VERSE 


HOME  AT  LAST 

To  an  open  house  in  the  evening, 

Home  shall  men  come, 

To  an  older  place  than  Eden, 

And  a  taller  town  than  Rome. 

To  the  end  of  the  way  of  the  wandering  star, 

To  the  things  that  cannot  be  and  that  are, 

To  the  place  where  (iod  was  homeless. 

And  all  men  are  at  home. 

G.  K.  Chesterton. 


66  WAR  VERSE 


"  SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE  " 

Somewhere  in  France  " — we  know  not  where — he  lies, 
Mid  shuddering  earth  and  under  anguished  skies ! 
We  may  not  visit  him,  but  this  we  say : 
Though  our  steps  err  his  shall  not  miss  their  way. 
From  the  exhaustion  of  War's  fierce  embrace 
He,  nothing  doubting,  went  to  his  own  place. 
To  him  has  come,  if  not  the  crown  and  palm, 
The  kiss  of  Peace — a  vast,  sufficing  calm ! 

So  fine  a  spirit,  daring,  yet  serene, — 

He  may  not,  surely,  lapse  from  what  has  been : 

Greater,  not  less,  his  wondering  mind  must  be ; 

Ampler  the  splendid  vision  he  must  see. 

'Tis  unbelievable  he  fades  away, — 

An  exhalation  at  the  dawn  of  day ! 

Nor  dare  we  deem  that  he  has  but  returned 

Into  the  Oversoul,  to  be  discerned 

Hereafter  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose. 

In  petal  of  the  lily,  or  in  those 

Far  jewelled  sunset  skies  that  glow  and  pale, 

Or  in  the  rich  note  of  the  nightingale. 

Nay,  though  all  beauty  may  recall  to  mind 

What  we  in  his  fair  life  were  wont  to  find. 

He  shall  escape  absorption,  and  shall  still 

Preserve  a  faculty  to  know  and  will. 

Such  is  my  hope,  slow  climbing  to  a  faith : 

(We  know  not  Life,  how  should  we  then  know  Death  ?) 

From  our  small  limits  and  withholdings  free. 

Somewhere  he  dwells  and  keeps  high  company ; 

Yet  tainted  not  with  so  supreme  a  bliss 

As  to  forget  he  knew  a  world  like  this. 

John  Hogben. 
The  Spectator, 


WAR  VERSE  67 


NOT  WITH  VAIN  TEARS 


/ 


Not  with  vain  tears,  when  we're  beyond  the  sun, 
We'll  beat  on  the  substantial  doors,  nor  tread 
Those  dusty  hi ti^h roads  of  the  aimless  dead 

Plaintive  for  Ivarth ;  but  rather  turn  and  run 

Down  some  close-covered  byway  of  the  air. 
Some  low  sweet  alley  between  wind  and  wind. 
Stoop  under  faint  gleams,  thread  the  shadows,  find 

Some  whispering  ghost-forgotten  nook,  and  there 

Spend  in  pure  converse  our  eternal  day ; 

Think  each  in  each,  immediately  wise; 
Learn  all  we  lacked  before;  hear,  know,  and  say 

What  this  tumultuous  body  now  denies; 
And  feel,  who  have  laid  our  groping  hands  away; 

And  see,  no  longer  blinded  by  our  eyes. 

Rupert  Brooke. 


68  WAR  VERSE 


GODS  OF  WAR 

Fate  wafts  us  from  the  pygmies'  shore: 

We  swim  beneath  the  epic  skies : 

A  Rome  and  Carthage  war  once  more, 

And  wider  empires  are  the  prize ; 

Where  the  beaked  galleys  clashed,  lo,  these 

Our  iron  dragons  of  the  seas ! 

High  o'er  the  mountains'  dizzy  steep 
The  winged  chariots  take  their  flight. 
The  steely  creatures  of  the  deep 
Cleave  the  dark  waters'  ancient  night. 
Below,  above,  in  wave,  in  air 
New  worlds  for  conquest  everywhere. 

More  terrible  than  spear  or  sword 
Those  stars  that  burst  with  fiery  breath : 
More  loud  the  battle  cries  are  poured 
Along  a  hundred  leagues  of  death. 
So  do  they  fight.     How  have  ye  warred, 
Defeated  Armies  of  the  Lord? 

This  is  the  Dark  Immortal's  hour; 

His  victory,  whoever  fail ; 

His  prophets  have  not  lost  their  power: 

Csesar  and  Attila  prevail. 

These  are  your  legions  still,  proud  ghosts, 

These  myriad  embattled  hosts. 

How  wanes  thine  empire,  Prince  of  Peace ! 

With  the  fleet  circling  of  the  suns 

The  ancient  gods  their  power  increase. 

Lo,  how  Thine  own  anointed  ones 

Do  pour  ttpon  the  warring  bands 

The  devil's  blessings  from  their  hands. 


WAR  VERSE  69 

Who  dreamed  a  dream  mid  outcasts  born 
Could  overbrow  the  pride  of  kings? 
They  pour  on  Christ  tiie  ancient  scorn. 
His  Dove  its  gold  and  silver  wings 
Has  spread.     Perhaps  it  nests  in  flame 
In  outcasts  who  abjure  His  name. 

Choose  ye  your  rightful  gods,  nor  pay 
Lip  reverence  that  the  heart  denies, 
O  Nations.     Is  not  Zeus  to-day, 
The  thunderer  from  the  epic  skies, 
More  than  the  Prince  of  Peace?     Is  Thor 
Not  nobler  for  a  world  at  war? 

They  fit  the  dreams  of  power  we  hold, 
Those  gods  whose  names  are  with  us  still. 
I^Ien  in  their  image  made  of  old 
The  high  companions  of  their  will. 
\\  ho  seek  an  airy  empire's  pride. 
Would  they  pray  to  the  Crucified? 

O  outcast  Christ,  it  was  too  soon 
For  flags  of  battle  to  be  furled 
While  life  was  yet  at  the  high  noon. 
Come  in  the  twilight  of  the  world : 
Its  kings  may  greet  Thee  without  scorn 
And  crown  Thee  then  without  a  thorn. 

A.  E. 
The  Times. 


70  WAR  VERSE 


WOMEN  TO  MEN 

God  bless  you,  lads ! 
All  women  of  the  race, 

As  forth  you  go, 
Wish  you  with  steadfast  face 

The  best  they  know. 

God  cheer  you,  lads ! 
Out  in  the  bitter  nights, 

Down  the  drear  days, 
Through  the  red  reeking  fights 

And  wasted  ways. 

God  bring  you,  lads, 
Back  to  the  motherland, 

True  laurels  gained. 
Glory  in  either  hand. 

Honor  unstained. 

Women  of  Britain's  race, 

As  forth  you  go, 
W^ish  you  with  proud  glad  face 

The  best  they  know : 
God  bless  you,  lads ! 


Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  71 


THE  SOLDIER 


/ 


If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaj^ed,  made  aware, 

(iave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds ;  dreams  happy  as  her  day ; 

And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends ;  and  gentleness. 

In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

Rupert  Brooki£. 


72  WAR  VERSE 


THE  NORTH  SEA  GROUND 

Oh,  Grimsby  is  a  pleasant  town  as  any  man  may  find, 
An'  Grimsby  wives  are  thrifty  wives,  an'  Grimsby  girls 

are  kind. 
An'  Grimsby  lads  were  never  yet  the  lads  to  lag  behind 
When  there's   men's   work  doin'   on   the   North   Sea 

ground. 

An'  it's  "  Wake  up,  Johnnie !  "  for  the  high  tide's  flowin', 
An'  off  the  misty  waters  a  cold  wind  blowin' ; 
Skipper's  come  aboard,  an'  it's  time  that  we  were  goin'. 
An'  there's  fine  fish  waitin'  on  the  North  Sea  ground. 

Soles  in  the  Silver  Pit — an'  there  we'll  let  'em  lie ; 
Cod  on  the  Dogger- — oh,  we'll  fetch  'ern  by-an'-by ; 
War  on  the  water — an'  it's  time  to  serve  an'  die. 

For  there's  wild  work  doin'  on  the  North  Sea  ground. 

An'  it's  "  W^ake  up,  Johnnie !  "  they  want  you  at  the 

trawlin' 
(With  your  long  sea-boots  and  your  tarry  old  tarpaulin)  ; 
AH  across  the  bitter  seas  duty  comes  a-callin' 

In  the  Winter's  weather  off  the  North  Sea  ground. 

It's  well  we've  learned  to  laugh  at  fear^the  sea  has 

taught  us  how ; 
It's  well  we've  shaken  hands  with  death — we'll  not  be 

strangers  now. 
With  death  in  every  climbin'  wave  before  the  trawler's 

bow, 
An'   the   black   spawn    swimmin'   on   the   North    Sea 

ground. 


WAR  VERSE  73 

Good  luck  to  all  our  tighliu'  ships  that  rule  the  English 

sea ; 
Good  luck   to   our  brave   merchantmen   wherever   they 

may  be ; 
The  sea  it  is  their  highway,  an'  we've  got  to  sweep  it  free 
For  the  ships  passin'  over  on  the  Xorth  Sea  ground. 

An'  it's  "  Wake  up,  Johnnie!  "  for  the  sea  wind's  crying; 

"  Time  an'  time  to  go  where  the  herrin'  gulls  are  flyin' ;" 
An'  down  below  the  stormy  seas  the  dead  men  lyin', 

Oh,  the  dead  lying  quiet  on  the  North  Sea  ground ! 

Punch. 


74  WAR  VERSE 


A.  B.  V. 

I  bow  my  head,  O  brother,  brother,  brother, 

But  may  not  grudge  you  that  were  All  to  me. 
Should  any  one  lament  when  this  our  mother 
Mourns  for  so  many  sons  on  land  and  sea? 
God  of  the  love  that  makes  two  lives  as  one 
Give  also  strength  to  see  that  England's  will  be  done. 

Let  it  be  done,  yea,  down  to  the  last  tittle, 

Up  to  the  fulness  of  all  sacrifice. 
Our  dead  feared  this  alone — to  give  too  little. 
Then  shall  the  living  murmur  at  the  price? 

The  hands   withdrawn    from   ours   to   grasp   the 
plough 
Would  suffer  only  if  the  furrow  faltered  now. 

Know,  fellow-mourners — be  our  cross  too  grievous— 

That  One  who  sealed  our  symbol  with  His  blood 
Vouchsafes  the  vision  that  shall  never  leave  us : 
Those  humble  crosses  in  the  Flanders  mud. 

And  think  there  rests  all-hallowed  in  each  grave 
A  life  given  freely  for  the  world  He  died  to  save. 

And,  far  ahead,  dim  tramping  generations, 

Who  never  felt  and  cannot  guess  our  pain, 
— Though  history  count  nothing  less  than  nations, 
And  fame  forget  where  grass  has  grown  again — 
Shall  yet  remember  that  the  world  is  free. 
It  is  enough.     For  this  is  immortality. 

I  raise  my  head,  O  brother,  brother,  brother. 

The  organ  sobs  for  triumph  to  my  heart. 
What !  who  will  think  that  ransomed  Earth  can  smother 


WAR  VERSE  75 

Her  own  great  soul  of  which  you  are  a  part! 
The  reciuiem  music  dies  as  if  it  knczo 
The  inviohite  peace  where  'tis  ah-eady  well  with  you. 

R.  V. 

The  Spectator. 


76  WAR  VERSE 


BRITISH  MERCHANT  SERVICE 

Oh,  down  by  Millvvall  Basin  as  I  went  the  other  day, 
I  met  a  skipper  that  I  knew,  and  to  him  I  did  say : 
"  Now  what's  the  cargo,  Captain,  that  brings  you  up  this 
way?" 

"  Oh,  I've  been  up  and  down  (said  he)  and  round  about 
also     .     .     . 

From  Sydney  to  the  Skagerack,  and  Kiel  to 
Callao     .     .     . 

With  a  leaking  steam-pipe  all  the  way  to  Cal- 
if orn-i-o     .     .     . 

"  With  pots  and  pans  and  ivory  fans  and  every  kind  of 

thing, 
Rails  and  nails  and  cotton  bales  and  sewer  pipes  and 

string     .     .     . 
But  now  I'm  through  with  cargoes,  and  I'm  here  to 

serve  the  King! 

"  And  if  it's  sweeping  mines  (to  which  my  fancy  some- 
what leans) 

Or  hanging  out  with  booby-traps  for  the  skulking  sub- 
marines, 

I'm  here  to  do  my  blooming  best  and  give  the  beggars 
beans ! 

"  A  rough  job  and  a  tough  job  is  the  best  job  for  me, 
And  what  or  where  I  don't  much  care,  I'll  take  what 

it  may  be. 
For  a  tight  place  is  the  right  place  when  it's  foul 

weather  at  sea  !  " 


WAR  VKRSE  77 

There's  not  a  port  he  doesn't  know  from  Melbourne  to 

New  York ; 
He's  as  hard  as  a  lump  of  harness  beef,  and  as  salt  as 

pickled  pork     .     .     . 
And  he'll  stand  by  a  wreck  in  a  murdering  gale  and 

count  it  part  of  his  work! 

He's  the  terror  of  the  fo'c's'le  when  he  heals  its  various 

ills 
Willi  lurjientine  and  mustard  leaves,  and  poultices  and 

pills     .     .     . 
But  he  knows  the  sea  like  the  palm  of  his  hand,  as  a 

shepherd  knows  the  hills. 

He'll  spin  you  yarns  from  dawn  to  dark — and  half  of 

'em  are  true ! 
He  swears  in  a  score  of  languages,  and  maybe  talks  in 

two ! 
And     .     .     .     he'll  lower  a  boat  in  a  hurricane  to  save 

a  drowning  crew. 

A   rough   job  or  a   tough   job — he's  handled  two  or 

.    three — 
And  what  or  where  he  w^on't  much  care,  nor  ask  what 

the  risk  may  be     .     .     . 
For  a   tight   place   is   the   right   place   when   it's   wild 
weather  at  sea ! 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
The  Spectator. 


78  WAR  VERSE 


CHRIST  IN  FLANDERS 

We  had  forgotten  You,  or  very  nearly — 
You  did  not  seem  to  touch  us  very  nearly — 

Of  course  we  thought  about  You  now  and  then ; 
Especially  in  any  time  of  trouble — 
We  knew  that  You  were  good  in  time  of  trouble — 

But  we  are  very  ordinary  men. 

And  there  were  always  other  things  to  think  of — 
There's  lots  of  things  a  man  has  got  to  think  of — 

His  work,  his  home,  his  pleasure,  and  his  wife ; 
And  so  we  only  thought  of  You  on  Sunday — 
Sometimes,  perhaps,  not  even  on  a  Sunday — 

Because  there's  always  lots  to  fill  one's  life. 

And,  all  the  while,  in  street  or  lane  or  byway — 
In  country  lane,  in  city  street,  or  byway — 

You  walked  among  us,  and  we  did  not  see. 
Your  feet  w^ere  bleeding  as  You  walked  our  pavements- 
How  did  we  miss  Your  Footprints  on  our  pavements  ?- 

Can  there  be  other  folk  as  blind  as  we  ? 

Now  we  remember ;  over  here  in  Flanders — 
(It  isn't  strange  to  think  of  You  in  Flanders) — 

This  hideous  warfare  seems  to  make  things  clear. 
We  never  thought  about  You  much  in  England — 
But  now  that  we  are  far  away  from  England — 

We  have  no  doubts,  we  know  that  You  are  here. 

You  helped  us  pass  the  jest  along  the  trenches — 
Where,  in  cold  blood,  we  waited  in  the  trenches — 

You  touched  its  ribaldry  and  made  it  fine. 
You  stood  beside  us  in  our  pain  and  weakness — 
We're  glad  to  think  You  understand  our  weakness — • 

Somehow  it  seems  to  help  us  not  to  whine. 


WAR  VERSE  79 

We  think  about  You  kneeling  in  the  Garden — 
Ah!  tied!  the  agony  of  that  dread  Garden — 

We  know  You  prayed  for  us  upon  the  Cross. 
If  anything  could  make  us  glad  to  bear  it — 
'Twould  be  the  knowledge  that  You  willed  to  bear  it — 

Pain — death — the  uttermost  of  human  loss. 

Though  we  forgot  You — You  will  not  forget  us — 
We  feel  so  sure  that  You  will  not  forget  us — 

But  stay  with  us  until  this  dream  is  past. 
And  so  we  ask  for  courage,  strength,  and  pardon — 
Especially,  I  think,  we  ask  for  pardon — 

And  that  You'll  stand  beside  us  to  the  last. 


The  Spectator. 


8o  WAR  VERSE 


"  THEY  ALSO  SERVE    . 


o  • 


Oh,  Father !  hear  us  when  we  plead 
For  those  who  fight  and  those  who  bleed ; 
For  those  who  yield  their  lives  that  we 
May  safely  rest  in  liberty. 
Remember,  Lord,   compassionate, 
Thy  servants  who  must  stand  and  wait. 

They  serve  Thee  too,  we  know  full  well; 

How  hard  it  is,  we  cannot  tell, 

To  fold  the  hands  that  fain  would  share 

A  portion  of  the  awful  care. 

Have  mercy.  Lord,  compassionate, 

On  those  whom  Thou  hast  bidden  "  wait.". 

And  as  the  fleeting  hours  fly. 
And  one  by  one  hope's  mornings  die, 
And  they  are  left  there,  waiting  still 
The  working  of  Thine  hidden  will. 
Oh !  Saviour,  all  compassionate. 
Keep  vigil  Thou,  with  those  who  wait. 


The  Bookman. 


WAR  VERSE  8i 


CHALK  AND  FLINT 

Comes  there  now  a  might}-  rally 

From  the  weald  and  from  the  coast, 
Down  from  clitT  and  up  from  valley, 

Spirits  of  an  ancient  host ; 
Castle  gray  and  village  mellow, 

Coastguard's  track  and  shepherd's  fold, 
Crumhling  church  and  cracked  martello 
Echo  to  this  chant  of  old — 

Chant  of  knight  and  chant  of  howman: 
Kciil  and  Sussex  feared  no  foenian 
In  the  valiant  days  of  old! 

Screaming  gull  and  lark  a-singing, 
P.ui)l)ling  brook  and  booming  sea. 
Church  and  cattle  bells  a-ringing 

Swell  the  ghostly  melody ; 
Chalk  and  flint.  Sirs,  lie  beneath  ye, 

Mingling  with  our  dust  below  ! 
Chalk  and  flint.  Sirs,  they  beciueath  ye 
This  our  chant  of  long  ago !  " 

Chant  of  knight  and  chant  of  bowman, 
Chant  of  s(|uire  and  chant  of  yeoman: 
Ke}it  and  Sussex  feared  no  foeman 
In  the  days  of  long  ago! 

Hills  that  heed  not  Time  or  weather, 
Sussex  down  and  Kentish  lane, 

Roads  that  wind  through  marsh  and  heather 
Feel  the  mail-shod  feet  again ; 

Chalk  and  flint  their  dead  are  giving — 
Spectres  grim  and  sjiectrcs  bold — 

Marching  on  to  cheer  the  living 
'     With  their  battle-chant  of  old — 


82  WAR  VERSE 


Chant  of  knight  and  chant  of  bowman, 
Chant  of  squire  and  chant  of  yeoman : 
Witness  Norman!     Witness  Roman! 
Kent  and  Sussex  feared  no  foeman 
In  the  valiant  days  of  old. 


Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  83 


THE  PITY  OF  IT 

I  walked  in  loamy  Wessex  lanes  afar 
I-'ioni  rail-track  and  from  highway,  and  I  heard 
In  field  and  farmstead  many  an  ancient  word 
Of  local  lineage  like  "  Thu  blst,"  "  Er  war," 

"  Ich  woll,"  "  Er  sholl,"  and  by-talk  similar. 
Even  as  they  speak  who  in  this  month's  moon  gird 
At  England's  very  loins,  thereunto  spurred 
By  gangs  whose  glory  threats  and  slaughters  are. 

Then  seemed  a  Heart  crying;  "  Whosoever  they  be 
At  root  and  bottom  of  this,  who  flung  this  flame 
Between  kin  folk  kin  tongued  even  as  are  we, 

"  Sinister,  ugly,  lurid,  be  their  fame: 
May  their  familiars  grow  to  shun  their  name. 
And  their  breed  perish  everlastingly." 

Thomas  Hardy. 
The  Fortnightly  Review. 


84  WAR  VERSE 


PRAYER  IN  TIME  OF  WAR 

Oh !  dear  fields  of  my  country,  hedges  and  lanes  and 
meadows, 
Hedges   where   wild   rose   blossoms,   meadows   where 
daisies  grow. 
Fields  where  the  green  corn  shivers,  lanes  where  the 
kindly  shadows 
Hide    from   unloving   eyes   the   way    that   the   lovers 
go     .     .     . 
Still  through  the  loud  loom's  clanging,  under  the  tall  mill's 
shadow. 
Through  dirt  and  noise  of  cities  live  old  sweet  sounds 
and  sights : 
Birds  that  sing  in  the  copses,  flowers  that  border  the 
meadows. 
Streams  that  tinkle  and  sprinkle  leaves  in  the  magic 
nights. 


Here  where  the  high  elms  circle  ancient  churchyards  and 
meadows. 
Fields   where  our   fathers  toiled,  churchyards   where 
now  they  sleep, 
Lanes  where  our  fathers  sought  the  kind  love-sheltering 
shadows. 
And  where  each  lies  with  his  true  love,  quiet  as  dreams 
are  deep. 
Every  meadow  and  tree  calls  to  us  now  to  befriend  them, 
Fields  where  our  childhood  played,  fields  where  our 
children  play. 
Lanes  where  we  walked  with  those  who  cry  to  our  hearts 
to  defend  them — 
England,   my   country,    speak   to   each   of  your   sons 
to-day ! 


WAR  VERSE  85 

Trampled  and  desecrate  now  are  the  foreign  woodlands 
and  meadows, 
Scarred  with   the  flame  of  war  the  lanes  where  the 
Mamand  wooed, 
Dark    is    the    Flemish    land    with    fiendish    implacable 
shadows  ; 
Greedy  gorgons  of  guns  stand  there  where  the  home- 
steads stood. 
Not  for  our  country  alone,  our  darling,  our  mistress,  our 
treasure, 
But  for  the  Flemish  home-land,  loved  of  her  noble  sons, 
And  for  the  fields  of  France,  our  brother's  glory  and 
pleasure — 
God  give  us  grace  to  face  the  shells  and  the  gas,  the 
guns! 

For  oh !  if  their  case  were  ours,  if  the  green  of  our  Eng- 
lish meadows 
Were  red  with  our  children's  blood,  what  should  we 
hold  back  then? 
If  the  liglit  of  our  English  fields  were  black  with  the 
German  shadows, 
What  would  the  world  be  worth  to  us  who  are  English 
men? 


Summer  is  soft  and  sweet  in  the  downs  and  the  woods 
and  the  meadows. 
Love  calls  soft  from  the  lanes,  with  grain  are  the  fields 
alight     .     .     . 
God,  give  me  nobler  dreams,  transfigure  my  heart's  hid 
shadows. 
Make  me  Thv  Knight,  to  fight  for  the  Right  in  the  light 
of  Thy  Alight ! 

E.  Nesbit. 
The  New  Witness^, 


86  WAR  VERSE 


CHAPLAIN  TO  THE  FORCES 

["/  have  once  more  to  remark  upon  the  devotion  to 
ditty,  courage,  and  contempt  of  danger  which  has  char- 
acterised the  work  of  the  Chaplains  of  the  Army  through- 
out this  campaign." — Sir  John  French  in  the  Neuve 
Chapelle  Despatch.] 

Ambassador  of  Christ  you  go 
Up  to  the  very  gates  of  Hell, 
Through  fog  of  powder,  storm  of  shell, 
To  speak  your  Master's  message :  "  Lo, 
The  Prince  of  Peace  is  with  you  still. 
His  peace  be  with  you,  His  goodwill." 

It  is  not  small,  your  priesthood's  price, 
To  be  a  man  and  yet  stand  by. 
To  hold  your  life  whilst  others  die, 
To  bless,  not  share  the  sacrifice. 
To  watch  the  strife  and  take  no  part — 
You  with  the  fire  at  your  heart.  ' 

But  yours,  for  our  great  Captain  Christ 

To  know  the  sweat  of  agony, 

The  darkness  of  Gethsemane, 

In  anguish  for  these  souls  unpriced. 

Vicegerent  of  God's  pity  you, 

A  sword  must  pierce  your  own  soul  through. 

In  the  pale  gleam  of  new-born  day 
Apart  in  some  tree-shadowed  place. 
Your  altar  but  a  packing-case. 
Rude  as  the  shed  where  Mary  lay. 
Your  sanctuary  the  rain-drenched  sod. 
You  bring  the  kneeling  soldier  God. 


WAR  VERSE  87 

As  sentinel  you  guard  the  gate 
'Twixt  life  and  death,  and  unto  death 
Speed  the  brave  soul  whose  failing  breath 
Shudders  not  at  the  grip  of  Fate, 
But  answers,  gallant  to  the  end, 
"  Christ  is  the  Word— and  I  His  friend." 

Then  God  go  with  you,  priest  of  God, 

For  all  is  well  and  shall  be  well. 

What  though  you  tread  the  roads  of  Hell, 

Your  Captain  these  same  ways  has  trod. 

Abo\e  the  anguish  and  the  loss 

Still  lloats  the  ensign  of  His  Cross. 

W.  M.  Letts. 
The  Spectator. 


88  WAR  VERSE 


"  LE  POILU  DE  CARCASSONNE  " 

The  poilus  of  France  on  the  Western  Front  are  brave  as 

brave  can  be, 
Whether  they  hail  from  rich  Provence  or  from  ruined 

Picardie ; 
It's  the  self-same  heart  from  the  lazy  Loire  and  the  busy 

banks  of  Seine, 
Undaunted  by  perpetual  mud  or  cold  or  gas  or  pain ; 
And  all  are  as  gay  as  men  know  how^  w^hose  wealth  and 

friends  are  gone, 
But  the  gayest  of  all  is  a  little  white  dog  that  came  from 

Carcassonne. 


He  was  brought  as  a  pup  by  a  Midi  man  to  a  sector  along 

the  Aisne, 
But  his  man  laid  the  wire  one  pitch-black  night  and  never 

came  back  again. 
The  pup  stood  by  with  one  ear  down  and  the  other  a 

question  mark, 
And  at  times  he  licked  his  dead  friend's  face  and  at  times 

he  tried  to  bark, 
Till  the  listening  sentry  heard  the  sound,  and  when  the 

daylight  shone 
He  looked  abroad  and  cried,  "  Bon  Giiieii!     C'est  le  poUu 

de  Carcassonne! " 

So  the  dead  man's  copains  kept  the  dog  on  the  strength 

of  the  company. 
And  whoever  went  short  it  was  not  the  pup,  though  a 

greedy  pup  was  he ; 
They  gave  him  their  choicest  bits  of  singe  and  drops  of 

pinard  too; 
He  was  warm  and  safe  when  he  crept  beneath  a  cloak  of 

horizon-blue ; 


WAR  VERSE  89 

They  clipped  fresh  brisqitcs  in  his  rough  white  coat  as 
the  weary  months  dragged  on, 

And  all  the  sector  knows  him  now  as  le  Po'ilu  dc  Car- 
cassonne. 

And  in  return  he  keeps  their  hearts  from  that  haunting 
foe,  Vcnnui; 

He's  their  plaything,  friend,  and  sentry  too,  and  a  lover 
of  devilry ; 

He  helps  them  to  hunt  out  rats  or  Boches ;  he  burrows 
and  sniffs  for  mines. 

And  he  growls  when  the  murderous  shrapnel  flies  scream- 
ing above  the  lines ; 

His  little  black  nose  is  a-quiver  with  glee  whenever  a 
raid  is  on, 

And  they  say  with  pride,  "  C'est  la  guerre  elle-meme, 
notrc  Poilu  dc  Carcassonne!  " 

There  was  none  more  glad  when  they  went  to  rest  in  their 

billet,  a  ruined  shack, 
Rut  when  they  returned  to  the  front-line  trench  he  was 

just  as  pleased  to  be  back; 
He's  the  spirit  of  fun  itself,  and  so  when  other  men  feel 

blue, 
His  friends   remark,   "  Le  cafard,   quoi  ?     On   Vconnah 

pas  chcz  nous!  " 
So  when  you  drink  to  the  valiant  French  and  the  glorious 

fights  they've  won 
Just  raise  your  glass  to  a  little  wdiite  dog  that  came  from 
Carcassonne. 

launch. 


90     •  WAR  VERSE 


ALL  THIS  IS  ENDED 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares, 

Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 
The  years  had  given  them  kindness.     Dawn  was  theirs, 

And  sunset,  and  the  colors  of  the  earth. 
These  had  seen  movement,  and  heard  music ;  known 

Slumber  and  waking ;  loved ;  gone  proudly  friended ; 
Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder;  sat  alone; 

Touched  flowers  and  furs  and  cheeks.     All  this  is 
ended. 

There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 
And  lit  by  the  rich  skies  all  day.  ■  And  after, 

Frost  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 
And  wondering  loveliness.     He  leaves  a  white 

Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 
A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night, 

Rupert  Brooke. 


WAR  VERSE  91 


A  GRAVE  IN  FLANDERS 

Here  in  the  marshland,  past  the  battered  bridge, 

One  of  a  hundred  grains  untimely  sown, 
Here,  with  his  comrades  of  the  hard-won  ridge 
He  rests,  unknown. 

His  horoscope  had  seemed  so  plainly  drawn — 

School  triumphs,  earned  apace  in  work  and  play; 
Friendships  at  will;  then  love's  delightful  dawn 
And  mellowing  day. 

Home  fostering  hope;  some  service  to  the  State; 

Benignant  age ;  then  the  long  tryst  to  keep 
Where  in  the  yew-tree  shadow  congregate 
His  fathers  sleep. 

Was  here  the  one  thing  needful  to  distil 

From  life's  alembic,  through  this  holier  fate, 
The  man's  essential  soul,  the  hero  w-ill  ? 
We  ask ;  and  wait. 

Lord  Crewe, 
The  Harrovian. 


92  WAR  VERSE 


DIES  IRAK 

Patience:  a  little  more  and  then  the  Day 
Which  hurls  us  'gainst  the  Foe  in  deadly  strife. 
We  know  the  price  our  Fathers  had  to  pay 
That  bought  for  us,  their  sons,  a  larger  life, 
And  if  we  give  our  all  we  give  no  more  than  they. 

Through  Sacrifice  the  path  of  Duty  lies ; 

The  Sacrifice  we  willingly  have  made 

And  yielded  up  our  homes  and  all  we  prize 

To  vindicate  the  right,  and  undismayed 

Fight,  whilst  aloft  the  British  battle  emblem  flies. 

So  let  the  Day  come  soon ;  we  will  not  boast 

Nor  shriek  against  the  Foe  hysteric  hate. 

In  silence  we  patrol  our  hallowed  coast 

Or  search  the  wintry  Northern  Seas  which  Fate 

Hath  given  us  to  hold  against  the  foreign  host. 

Visions  of  gardens  fair  where  once  we  trod. 
Whispers  of  voices  now  and  ever  dear 
Haunt  us  too  much  perchance :  we  kiss  the  rod 
And  murmur,  as  our  Destiny  draws  near. 
This  prayer,  "  Quit  ye  like  men  and  leave  the  rest  to 
God." 

B.  H.  W. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  93 


PORTSMOUTH  BELLS 

A  lazy  sea  came  washing  in 

Right  through  the  Harbor  mouth, 
Where  gray  and  silent,  half  asleep, 
The  lords  of  all  the  oceans  keep, 

West,  East,  and  North  and  South. 
The  Summer  sun  spun  cloth  of  gold 

Upon  the  twinkling  sea. 
And  little  t.b.d.'s  lay  close, 
Stern  near  to  stern  and  nose  to  nose, 
And  slumbered  peacefully. 

Oh,  bells  of  Portsmouth  Town, 
Oh,  bells  of  Portsmouth  Town, 
You  rang  of  peace  upon  the  seas 
Before  the  leaves  turned  brown. 

A  grayish  sea  goes  sweeping  in 

Beyond  the  boom  to-day ; 
The  ilarbor  is  a  cold,  clear  space. 
For  far  beyond  the  Solent's  race 
The  gray-flanked  cruisers  play. 
For  it's  oh  !  the  long,  long  night  up  North, 

The  sullen  twilit  day, 
Where  Portsmouth  men  cruise  up  and  down, 
And  all  alone  in  Portsmouth  Town 
Arc  women  left  to  pray. 

Oh,  bells  of   Portsmouth   Town, 
Oh,  bells  of   Portsmouth   Town, 
What  will  ye  ring  when  once  again 
The  green  leaves  turn  to  brown? 

Punch. 


94  WAR  VERSE 


WE  HOPE  TO  WIN 

"  We  hope  to  win  "  ?     By  God's  help,  "  Yes  " ; 
Though  of  the  "  when  "  no  man  may  guess, 

Since  there  must  yet  be  weary  strain, 

Alternate  joy,  alternate  pain. 
Till  Victory  come,  at  end,  to  bless ! 

But  there  are  other  wars  that  press, 
Wars  bred  of  fulness  and  excess. 
Which — if  we  would  our  place  maintain — 
We  hope  to  win ! 

There  is  the  war  with  selfishness — 
A  sluggish  fiend  that  doubts  distress ; 

With  hearts  that  fail  and  lips  that  feign ; 

With  vice  and  drink  and  greed  of  gain — 
These  are  the  wars  in  which,  not  less. 
We  hope  to  win ! 

Austin  Dobson. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  95 


THE  NEW  MARS 

I  war  against  the  folly  that  is  War, 
The  sacrifice  that  pity  hath  not  stayed, 

The  Great  Delusion  men  have  perished  for, 
The  lie  that  hath  the  souls  of  men  betrayed: 

I  war  for  justice  and  for  human  right, 

Against  the  lawless  tyranny  of  Might. 

A  monstrous  cult  has  held  the  world  too  long : 
The  worship  of  a  Moloch  that  hath  slain 

Remorselessly  the  young,  the  brave,  the  strong, — 
Indifferent  to  the  unmeasured  pain. 

The  accumulated  horror  and  despair. 

That  stricken  Earth  no  longer  wills  to  bear. 

My  goal  is  peace, — not  peace  at  any  price, 
While  yet  ensanguined  jaws  of  Evil  yawn 

Hungry  and  pitiless :  Nay,  peace  were  vice 
I'ntil  the  cruel  dragon-teeth  be  drawn, 

And  the  wronged  victims  of  Oppression  be 

Delivered  from  its  hateful  rule,  and  free ! 

When  comes  that  hour,  resentment  laid  aside. 
Into  a  ploughshare  will  I  beat  my  sword ; 

The  weaker  Nations'  strength  shall  be  my  pride, 
Their  gladness  my  exceeding  great  reward; 

And  not  in  vain  shall  be  the  tears  now  shed. 

Nor  vain  the  service  of  the  gallant  dead. 

*  •¥  if  in  Hi  ^ 

I  war  against  the  folly  that  is  War, 

The  futile  sacrifice  that  naught  hath  stayed, 

The  Great  Delusion  men  have  perished  for. 
The  lie  that  hath  the  souls  of  men  betrayed: 

For  faith  I  war,  humanity,  and  trust ; 

For  peace  on  earth — a  lasthuj  peace,  and  just! 

Florence  Earli-:  Coati:s. 
The  Athenaeum. 


96  WAR  VERSE 


RHEIMS  CATHEDRAL 

Long  centuries  ago  a  holy  man 

Sang  out  his  soul  in  ecstasy  to  God; 

So  sweet  the  rapture  of  the  music  ran 
An  angel  froze  it  to  the  hallowed  sod. 

Love,  faith  and  worship  all  took  form  on  high, 

And  Rheims  Cathedral  towered  to  the  sky. 

It  stood  through  all  the  ages  of  mischance, 

Knew  kings  and  peasants,  lords  and  ladies  fair; 

It  looked  upon  the  sainted  Maid  of  France, 
And  sinners  found  a  sanctuary  there. 

So  for  the  sake  of  His  most  holy  name 

The  ancient  vandals  spared  it  from  the  flame. 

Then  came  the  Germans  with  the  breath  of  hell. 
The  walls  were  melted  and  the  music  fled. 

For  all  the  beauty  that  men  loved  so  well 
The  Demon's  discord  pierced  the  air  instead, 

And  what  was  once  a  prayer  to  God's  far  Throne 

Stands  now  an  awful  blasphemy  in  stone. 

McLandburgh  Wilson. 
The  Bookman. 


WAR  VERSE  97 


BATTLE 

Before  Action 

I  sit  beside  the  brazier's  glow, 
And,  drowsing  in  the  heat, 

I  dream  of  daffodils  that  blow, 
And  lambs  that  frisk  and  bleat — 

Black  lambs  that  frolic  in  the  snow 

Among  the  daffodils. 
In  a  far  orchard  that  I  know 

Beneath  the  Malvern  hills. 

Next  year  the  daffodils  will  blow, 
And  lambs  will  frisk  and  bleat: 

But  I'll  not  feel  the  brazier's  glow, 
Nor  any  cold  or  heat. 


/ 


/ 


The  Question 

I  wonder  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not. 

Gey  bad  she  was  the  night  I  left,  and  sick. 
Dick  reckoned  she  would  mend.    He  knows  a  lot — 

At  least  he  fancies  so  himself,  does  Dick. 

Dick  knows  a  lot.     But  maybe  I  did  wrong 
To  leave  the  cow  to  him,  and  come  away. 

Over  and  over  like  a  silly  song 

These  words  keep  humming  in  m}  head  all  day. 

And  all  T  think  of,  as  I  face  the  foe 

And  take  my  lucky  chance  of  being  shot, 

Is  this — that  if  I'm  hit,  I'll  never  know 
Till  Doomsday  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not. 


98  WAR  VERSE 


/ 


/ 


/ 


Deaf 

This  day  last  year  I  heard  the  curlew  calling 

By  Hallypike, 
And  the  clear  tinkle  of  hill-waters  falling 

Down  slack  and  syke. 

But  now  I  cannot  hear  the  shrapnel's  screaming, 

The  screech  of  shells: 
And  if  again  I  see  the  blue  lough  gleaming 

Among  the  fells, 

Unheard  of  me  will  be  the  curlew's  calling 

By  Hallypike, 
And  the  clear  tinkle  of  hill-waters  falling 

Down  slack  and  syke. 

The  Dancers 

All  day  beneath  the  hurtling  shells 

Before  my  burning  eyes 
Hover  the  dainty  demoiselles — 

The  peacock  dragon-flies. 

Unceasingly  they  dart  and  glance 

Above  the  stagnant  stream — 
And  I  am  fighting  here  in  France 

As  in  a  senseless  dream — 

A  dream  of  shattering  black  shells 

That  hurtle  overhead, 
And  dainty  dancing  demoiselles 

Above  the  dreamless  dead. 

Under  Fire 

We  eat  our  breakfast  lying  on  our  backs, 

Because  the  shells  were  screeching  overhead. 

I  bet  a  rasher  to  a  loaf  of  bread 

That  Hull  United  would  beat  Halifax 

When  Jimmy  Stainthorpe  played  full  back  instead 


WAR  VERSE  99 

Of  Billy  Bradford.     Ginger  raised  his  head, 
And  cursed,  and  took  the  bet — and  dropt  back  dead. 
We  eat  our  breakfast  lying  on  our  backs. 
Because  the  shells  were  screeching  overhead. 

The  Messages 

"  I  cannot  quite  remember     .     .     .     There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench — and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me     .     .     ." 

Back  from  the  trenches,  more  dead  than  alive. 
Stone-deaf  and  dazed,  and  with  a  broken  knee. 
He  hobbled  slowly,  muttering  vacantly  : 

• 
"  I  cannot  quite  remember     .     .     .     There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench — and  three 
W  hispered  their  dying  messages  to  me     . 

"  Their   friends   are   waiting,   wondering  how   they 
thrive — 
Waiting  a  word  in  silence  patiently     .     .     . 
But  what  they  said,  or  who  their  friends  may  be 

"  I  cannot  c|uite  remember     .     .     .     There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench — and  three 
Whispering  their  dying  messages  to  me     .     .     ." 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson. 
The  Nation. 


loo  WAR  VERSE 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "  EASTERN  CROWN  " 

I've  sailed  in  'ookeis  plenty  since  first  I  went  to  sea, 
An'  sail  or  steam,  an'  good  or  bad,  was  all  alike  to  me ; 
There's  some  'ave  tried  to  starve  me,  an'  some  'ave  tried 

to  drown.     .     .     . 
But  I  never  met  the  equal  o'  the  Eastern  Crown. 

'Er  funnel's  like  a  chimley,  'er  sides  is  like  a  tub ; 
An'  pay  is  middlin'  scanty,  an'  likewise  so  is  grub; 
She's  'ard  to  beat  for  steerin'  bad,  she's  'ard  to  beat  for 

grime. 
An'  rollin'  is  'er  'obby — oh,  she's  rollin'  all  the  time ! 

Rollin'  down  to  Singapore — rollin'  up  to  Maine — 
Rollin'  round  to  Puget  Sound,  an'  then  'ome  again ! 
A  long  roll,  an'  a  short  roll,  an'  a  roll  in  between — 
An'  the  crew  cursin'  rosy  when  she  ships  it  green ! 

We  sailed  for  Philadelphia,  New  York,  an'  Montreal, 
Dischargin'  general  cargo  at  our  various  ports  o'  call ; 
We  knocked  about  a  year  or  so  'tween  Callao  an'  Nome, 
An'  then  to  Portland,  Oregon,  to  load  wi'  deals  for  'ome. 

She's  met  with  accidents  a  few  (which  is  'er  usual 
way)  ; 

She  scraped  the  bowsprit  off  a  barque  in  San  Fran- 
cisco Bay; 

She's  shed  propeller  blades  an'  plates  wherever  she  'as 
been     .     .     . 

An'  last  she's  fouled  'er  bloomin'  screw  on  a  German 
submarine ! 

Rollin'  in  the  sunshine— rollin'  in  the  rain — 
Rollin'  up  the  Channel — an'  we're  'ome  again ! 
A  long  roll,  an'  a  short  roll,  an'  a  roll  in  between — 
An'  the  crew  cursin'  rosy  when  she  ships  it  green ! 


WAR  VERSE  loi 

As  on  the  'igh  an'  draughty  bridge  I  stood  my  wheci 
one  day, 
"  If  we  should  sight  a  submarine  "  (I  'eard  the  old  man 

say), 
"  I'd  do  as  Admirals  retired  an'  other  folks  'ave  said, 
I'd  run  ihe  old  Red  Duster  up  an'  ring  '  Full  speed 
ahead ! ' 


I'd  sink  before  I'd  'eave  'er  to  or  'aul  my  colors  down: 
By  gosh,  the}'ll  catch  a  Tartar  if  they  catch  the  /:a^/- 

er)i  Crown! 
I've  thought  it  out  both  'igh  an'  low,  an'  this  seems  best 

to  me — 
Pursoo  a  zig-zag  course  "  (he  says)  "  an'  see  what  I 

shall  see !  " 


Rollin'  through  the  Doldrums— rollin'  in  the  foam — 
Rollin'  by  the  Fastnet — an'  we're  nearly  'ome ! 
A  long  roll,  an'  a  short  roll,  an'  a  roll  in  between — 
An'  the  crew  cursin'  rosy  when  she  ships  it  green ! 


'E  said  it  an'  'e  meant  it,  an'  'e  acted  as  'e  said, 

When   sure  enough  we  sighted  one  abeam  o'  Lizard 

'Fad  ; 
You  should  'ave  'eard  the  engines  grunt — you  should 

'ave  seen  'er  roll, 
She  was  beatin'  all  'er  records  as  they  shovelled  on 

the  coal     .     .     . 


They  missed  'er  by  a  spittin'  length — 'er  rollin'  served 

'er  well ; 
But  it  served  'er  better  after,  as  you're  goin'  to  'ear  me 

tell; 
For   she   some'ow   n;llcd   'erself  atop  o'   the   bloomin' 

submarine 
An'  the  oil  upon  the  waters  was  the  last  of  it  we  seen. 


I02  WAR  VERSE 

Rollin' up  to  London  Town  (an' down  by  the  bow  !) — 
Rollin'  'ome  to  Surrey  Docks — ain't  we  'eroes  now? 
A  long  roll,  an'  a  short  roll,  an'  a  roll  m  between — ■ 
An'  the  crew  cursin'  rosy  when  she  ships  it  green ! 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  103 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FIELD-MARSHAL  EARL 

KITCHENER 

Born  JiDic  24th,  1850. 

Died  on  Service  June  5th,  igi6. 

Soldier  of  England,  you  w  ho  served  her  well 

And  in  that  service,  silent  and  apart, 
Achieved  a  name  that  never  lost  its  spell 

Over  your  country's  heart ; — 

Who  saw  your  work  accomplished  ere  at  length 
Shadows  of  evening  fell,  and  creeping  Time 

Had  bent  your  stature  or  resolved  the  strength 
That  kept  its  manhood  prime ; — 

Great  was  your  life,  and  great  the  end  you  made, 
As  through  the  plunging  seas  that  whelmed  your  head 

Your  spirit  passed,  unconquered,  unafraid. 
To  join  the  gallant  dead. 

Rut  not  by  death  that  spell  could  pass  away 
That  fixed  our  gaze  upon  the  far-off  goal. 

Who,  by  your  magic,  stand  in  arms  to-day 
A  nation  one  and  whole. 

Now  doubly  pledged  to  bring  your  vision  true 
Of  darkness  vantiuished  and  the  dawn  set  free 

In  that  full  triumph  which  your  faith  foreknew 
But  might  not  live  to  see. 

Owi:n  Si-:aman. 
Punch. 


/ 


I04  WAR  VERSE 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER 

Lest  the  young  soldiers  be  strange  in  heaven, 
God  bids  the  old  soldier  they  all  adored 

Come  to  Him  and  wait  for  them,  clean,  new-shriven, 
A  happy  doorkeeper  in  the  House  of  the  Lord. 

Lest  it  abash  them,  the  strange  new  splendor, 
Lest  they  affright  them,  the  new  robes  clean ; 

Here's  an  old  face,  now,  long-tried  and  tender, 
A  word  and  a  hand-clasp  as  they  troop  in. 

"  My  boys !  "     He  greets  them :  and  heaven  is  homely. 

He  their  great  captain  in  days  gone  o'er ; 
.    Dear  is  the  friend's  face,  honest  and  comely, 

Waiting  to  welcome  them  by  the  strange  door. 

Katharine  Tynan. 
The  Cornhill  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  105 


LAUREL  AND  CYrRESS 

I  watched  him  swinging  down  the  street, 

Lhe  fairest  lad  in  all  the  line, 
His  kilt  and  khaki,  braw  and  neat, 

My  iirst-born — mine! 

He  sleeps  beneath  the  blood-red  sod — 
A  letter  from  the  King  to  say : 
"  Fallen  in  Honor's  Cause."     .     .     .     Thank  God ! 
But  ay !     But  ay ! 

J.  Napier  Milne. 
The  Bookman. 


io6  WAR  VERSE 


IN  LAST  YEAR'S  CAMP 

They  stole  the  gorse's  glory,  they  scared  the  foals  at  play, 
They  yearned  for  Tipperary  on  every  woodland  wav ; 
Their  tent  peaks  pricked  the  dawning,  their  bugles  shcok 

the  dew. 
While  the  encamped  Division  became  the  men  we  knew. 

The  tents  were  struck  at  twilight,  the  pipers  skirled  a  cry, 
The  stars  came  out  in  Heaven  to  bid  the  lads  good-bye, 
That  night  they  took  the  Old  Road,  the  straightest  road 

that  runs, 
Deep  widi  the  dust  of  armies,  and  graven  by  their  guns. 

Now  tentless  lie  the  moorlands, the  glades  most  lonely  are; 

But  still  the  russet  ponies  stand  solemnly  afar; 

And  still  I  think  they  hearken,  and  know  the  sound  oi 

men — 
The  marching  tramp  of  heroes  we  shall  not  see  again. 

Now  leave  we  to  its  glory  the  camp  of  yesterday, 

Vex  not  its  echoes  lightly- — their  souls  may  come  this  way, 

The  lads  who  cut  the  bracken  when  beechen  leaves  were 

red, 
And,  ere  the  cuckoo's  calling,  were  England's  Deathless 

Dead! 

Mary  Adair  Macdonald. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  107 


HELPING 

["  We  have,  through  no  wish  of  our  own,  become  en- 
gaged in  what  Bismarck  described  as  the  task  of  '  rolling 
up  the  map  of  Europe  ' ;  and  it  is  a  task  in  which  duly 
recjuires  everybody,  civilian  as  well  as  soldier,  to  assist."] 

Half  a  score  of  gutter-snipes,  passing  Downing-street, 

Banging  martial  music  out  of  empty  salmon-tins ; 
Underwriters,  claiming  special  knowledge  of  the  Fleet 

And  of  what  will  happen  when  the  Naval  War  begins ; 
Youngsters  narrow  in  the  chest,  groggy  at  the  knees ; 

Never  wrought  by  Nature  to  march  boldl}'  in  the  ranks; 
Laborers  with  'orny  'ands  ;  scholars  with  degrees  ; 

Waitresses  from  bun-shops,  and  their  patrons  from  the 
banks — 
Everybody's  help'uuj:  not  zvitli  boastful  clamor, 
But  zi'itli  grim  desire  to  "see  this  through  "; 
In  no  greed  of  glory,  knowing  not  of  glamour 
(Yea,  without  a  "  D.S.O."  m  viezL'!), 
But  the  very  finest  is  a  little  foreign  chap 
Who's  left  his  job  to  help  us  as  we're  rolling  up  the 
map! 

War's  a  thing  of  modern  make,  run  on  modern  lines 

(Kitchener  and  I>onaparte  could  never  have  agreed!) 
And  the\'  serve  the  State  who're  working  down  the  mines, 

(letting  up  the  coal  that  cotton-mills  may  need. 
Scavengers  and  statesmen,  bishops  and  boy-scouts 

Cannot  all  be  in  the  expeditionary  force, 
.Sf)  they're  left  to  "  carry  on,"  scorning  fears  and  doubts, 
Just  as  though  the  world  moved  in  its  ordinary  course. 
////  of  them  arc  helping:  just  as  those  are  serving 

\\  ho  can  only  stand  aside  and  ■rcail. 
Knoii'infi  that  impatience  makes  them  undeserving 
To  escape  the  menaces  of  Fate. 
But  the  little  foreigner  zi'ho  came  zviihout  a  call 
Is  helping  in  a  business  that  isn't  his  at  all ! 


io8  WAR  VERSE 

Jean,  and  Mr.  Atkins,  Ivan  from  the  East, 

Long  have  learnt  to  hold  them  prepared  for  sudden 
strife. 
But  their  little  friend  seemed  never  in  the  least 

Likely  to  be  troubled  in  his  quiet,  peaceful  life; 
Yet  he's  borne  their  burden,  and  defied  their  foe. 

Thinking  more  of  honor  than  of  what  he'll  have  to  pay  ; 
Seen  his  fields  down-trodden,  his  burning  roof-tree  glow. 
Then  turned  him  bravely  east  again,  to  bar  the  blood- 
splashed  way. 
All  good  men  are  helping:  hut  the  aid  most  knightly 

Comes  from  him  who's  made  most  sacrifice, 
Heeding  not  the  quarrel — only  this,  that,  rightly, 
Pledges  can't  be  broken  at  a  price! 
He's  shown  the  world,  from  Aldershot  to  Moscozu  and 

Sedan, 
That  Belgium's  little  soldier  is  a  great,  big-hearted  man! 

P.  B. 

The  Westminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  109 


SONG  OF  THE  ZEPPELIN 

The  ni£][ht-\vind  is  humming, 
My  engines  are  ihiuniniing, 
Swift  as  a  spark 
Through  the  night  and  the  dark 

I  am  silently  speeding; 
Hovering  grim  and  gray 
Over  my  human  prey, 
Sowing  the  seeds  of  dearth 
Over  the  stricken  earth, 

Where  nations  lie  bleeding. 

Ship  without  sails  am  I, 
Bird  without  wings  am  I, 
Lord  of  the  gales  am  I, 
Terror  of  Kings  am  I, — 
I  am  the  Zeppelin  ! 

The  cities  are  sleeping. 

Their  searchlights  are  sweeping, 

Into  the  skies 

I  advance,  I  arise, 

W'here  the  distance  grows  vaster ; 
See  where  the  sky  grows  red, 
Lit  by  the  bombs  I  shed — 
Stealthy  and  swift, 
I  fling  them  my  gift. 

Death  and  disaster! 

Mark  well  the  flight  of  me. 
Ships  !     Have  a  care  of  me  ! 
Shrink  at  the  sight  of  me! 
Cities  !     I'jcware  of  mc  I 
I  am  the  Zepi)clin  ! 

V 101. 1. 1   I).  Chapman. 
The  Bookman. 


no  WAR  VERSE 


BELGIUAl 

When  I  bethink  how  nations  wax  and  wane, 
These  Hke  ripe  fruit  slow-cankered  from  inside, 
These  falling  swift  from  overweening  pride 
That  held  the  gentle  heart  in  high  disdain, 
This  battered  to  its  knees  to  rise  again, 
One  thing  alone  above  the  surging  tide 
And  flux  of  things  seems  surely  to  abide, 
The  soul  that  doth  invincible  remain. 
To  you,  heroic  Belgium,  beaten  down 
Because  you  trusted  in  a  neighbor's  word. 
Has  come  the  terrible  night,  but  comes  the  morn. 
Wasted  with  fire  and  bleeding  from  the  sword. 
Proudly  you  wear  self-sacrifice  for  crown 
And  find  your  soul  immortally  reborn. 

H.  D.  Rawnsley. 
The  Times. 


WAR  VERSE  III 


FAREWELL 

Mother,  with  unhowed  head 

Hear  thou  across  the  sea 
The  farewell  of  the  dead, 

The  dead  who  died  for  thee. 
Greet  them  again  with  tender  words  and  grave, 
For,  saving  thee,  themselves  they  could  not  save. 

To  keep  the  house  unharmed 

Their  fathers  built  so  fair, 
Deeming  endurance  armed 

Pietter  than  brute  despair, 
They  found  the  secret  of  the  word  that  saith, 
Service  is  sweet,  for  all  true  life  is  death." 

So  greet  thou  well  thy  dead 

Across  the  homeless  sea. 
And  be  thou  comforted 

Because  they  died  for  thee. 
Far  off  they  served,  but  now  their  deed  is  done 
For  evermore  their  life  and  thine  are  one. 

Henry  Newholt, 


112  WAR  VERSE 


Punch 


WIRELESS 

There  sits  a  little  demon 

Above  the  Admiralty, 
To  take  the  news  of  seamen 

Seafaring  on  the  sea; 
So  all  the  folk  aboard-ships 

Five  hundred  miles  aw^ay 
Can  pitch  it  to  their  Lordships 

At  any  time  of  day. 

The  cruisers  prowl  observant; 

Their  crackling  whispers  go ; 
The  demon  says,  "  Your  servant," 

And  lets  their  Lordships  know; 
A  fog's  come  down  off  Flanders? 

A  something  showed  off  Wick? 
The  captains  and  commanders 

Can  speak  their  Lordships  quick. 

The  demon  sits  a-waking; 

Look  up  above  Whitehall — 
E'en  now,  mayhap,  he's  taking 

The  Greatest  Word  of  all ; 
From  smiling  folk  aboard-ships 

He  ticks  it  off  the  reel : — 
'  An'  may  it  please  your  Lordships, 

A  Fleet's  put  out  o'  Kiel !  " 


WAR  VERSE  113 


TO  ALL  OUR  DEAD 

Between  the  heart  and  the  lips  we  stay  our  words  and 

remember 
The  long  tight  in  the  sodden  fields  and  the  ultimate  pledge 

they  render 
Whom  we  never  forget ;  and  afraid  lest  by  chance  we 

betray  and  belie  them 
We  call  up«jn  you  that  ride  before,  who  rode  lately  by 

them, 
Lest   we  make  you   ashamed  when  you   ride   with   the 

valiant  of  all  the  earth 
In  the  armies  of  God. 

Lo !  we  call  upon  you  to  stand  as  sentinel  over  us, 

You   from  our  griefs  set   free  while  the  shadows  still 
cover  us 

From  the  heart  that  fails  and  the  heart  that  hates  alike 
deliver  us, 

From  the  frenzy  that  stabs  at  the  weak  divide  and  dis- 
sever us, 

Keeping   our    faith    as   you    kept    the   line,    holding   the 
coward's  cruel  mind, 

The  final  treason,  afar. 

Death  for  you  is  a  sorrow  endured,  a  thing  passed  over 

They  are  facing  it  still,  son  and  brother  and  lover; 

They  keep  the  line,  and  we  keep  our  faith,  and  the  soul 

of  a  peoi)le  lies  between  us. 
From  fear  of  phantoms,  from  a  covetous  dream  stand 

near  and  screen  us. 
Watch  with  us,  watch  through  the  days  of  war;— then, 

pass  tf)  your  place 

With  the  armies  of  God. 

Lucy  Mastkkman. 
The  Nation 


£14  WAR  VERSE 


LITANY  IN  WAR  TIME 

Now  that  the  heavens  are  opened, 

Now  that  the  call  has  come, 
Now  that  Hell's  driven  legions 

Strike  the  old  voices  dumb ; 
Now  that  Thy  hand  is  upon  us, 

Now  that  our  trial  begins, 
Lord  God  of  love  as  of  battles — 

Lord,  forgive  us  our  sins ! 

The  naked  we  have  not  clothed, 

The  hungry  we  have  not  fed, 
The  women  degraded  and  outcast, 

The  children  ciying  for  bread! 
Vanity,  sloth  and  falsehood. 

Luxury,  greed  and  fear. 
Help,  Lord,  to  cast  them  behind  us, 

Now  that  Thy  Word  is  clear. 

Set  not  our  blindness  before  Thee! 

Open  our  eyes  to  see — 
To  see  in  this  darkness  the  glory 

Of  Thy  great  peace  to  be ! 
If  for  our  sins  we  must  perish. 

Grant  us  the  grace.  Most  High — 
If  for  our  sins  we  must  perish, — 

Yet  for  this  cause  to  die ! 

High  above  fears  and  chances 

Our  England  that  is  to  be ! 
Peace  upon  earth,  goodwill  among  men, 

Justice  and  Liberty. 
High  in  the  raging  storm-w'ind 

The  banner  of  England  streams : 
England  I  our  city  of  heart's  desire, 

The  England  of  our  dreams. 


WAR  VERSE  115 

Thou  wilt  not  fail  that  luii^jland, 

Living  or  dying,  we  know. 
Lord,  we  have  nothing  to  fear  from  mischance, 

Nothing  to  fear  from  the  foe : 
Wrapped  in  their  own  desolation, 

By  terror  and  death  bestrid; 
Lord,  in  that  hour  have  mercy  on  them 

Who  knew  not  what  they  did. 

Now  that  the  heavens  are  opened. 

Now  that  the  trump  is  blown. 
Lord,  Thou  wilt  search  the  nations. 

Lord.  Thou  wilt  know  Thine  own ! 
High  in  the  raging  storm-wind 

The  banner  of  England  streams: 
I-jigland !  our  city  of  heart's  desire, 

The  England  of  our  dreams ! 

J.  W.  A. 
The  New  Witness. 


ii6  WAR  VERSE 


TO  A  SKYLARK  BEHIND  OUR  TRENCHES 

Thou  little  voice !     Thou  happy  sprite, 

How  didst  thou  gain  the  air  and  light — 

That  sing'st  so  merrily? 

How  could  such  little  wings 

Give  thee  thy  freedom  from  these  dense 

And  fetid  tombs — these  burrows  whence 

We  peer  like  frightened  things? 

In  the  free  sky 

Thou  sail'st  while  here  we  crawl  and  creep 

And  fight  and  sleep 

And  die. 

How  canst  thou  sing  while  Nature  lies 
Bleeding  and  torn  beneath  thine  eyes, 
And  the  foul  breath 
Of  rank  decay  hangs  like  a  shroud 
Over  the  fields  the  shell  hath  ploughed  ? 
How  canst  thou  sing,  so  gay  and  glad, 
While  all  the  heavens  are  filled  with  death 
And  all  the  World  is  Mad? 

Yet  sing!     For  at  thy  song 

The  tall  trees  stand  up  straight  and  strong 

And  stretch  their  twisted  arms. 

And  smoke  ascends  from  pleasant  farms 

And  the  shy  flowers  their  odors  give. 

Once  more  the  riven  pastures  smile, 

And  for  a  while 

We  live. 

E.  DE  S. 

France,  May,  ipi6. 
The  Times. 


WAR  VERS£  ii7 


OLD  WOMEN 

Faint  ajjainst  the  twilig^ht,  dim  against  the  evening, 
Fading  into  darkness  against  the  lapping  sea, 
She  sailed  away  from  harbor,  from  safety  into  danger, 
The  ship  that  took  him  from  me — my  sailor  boy  from 
me. 

He  went  away  to  join  her,  from  me  that  loved  and  bore 

him. 
Loved  him  ere  I  bore  him,  that  was  all  the  world  to  me. 
"  Xo  time  for  leave,  mother,  must  be  back  this  evening, 
Time  for  our  patrol  again,  across  the  winter  sea." 

Six  times  over,  since  he  went  to  join  her, 
Came  he  to  see  me,  to  run  back  again. 
"  r\jur  hours'  leave,  mother — still  got  the  steam  up, 
Going  on  patrol  to-night — the  old  East  lane. 

"  Seven  times  lucky,  and  perhaps  we'll  have  a  battle, 
Then  I'll  bring  a  medal  back  and  give  it  you  to  keep." 
And  his  name  is  in  the  paper,  with  close  upon  a  hundred, 
Who  lie  there  beside  him,  many  fathom  deep. 

And  beside  him  in  the  paper,  somebody  is  writing, 
— God!  but  how  I  hate  him — a  liar  and  a  fool, — 
"  Where  is  the  British  Navy — is  it  staying  in  the  harbors? 
Has  the  Nelson  spirit  in  the  fleet  begun  to  cool?  " 

Klaxon. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


ii8  WAR  VERSE 


THE  BRIDGE  BUILDERS 

They  have  builded  magnificent  bridges 

Where  the  nation's  highways  go; 
O'er  perilous  mountain  ridges, 
And  where  great  rivers  flow. 
Wherever  a  hnk  was  needed  between  the  new  and  the 

known 
They  have  left  their  marks  of  Progress,  in  iron  and  steel 
and  stone. 

There  was  never  a  land  too  distant, 

Nor  ever  a  way  too  wide. 
But  some  man's  mind,  insistent, 
Reached  out  to  the  other  side. 
They  cleared  the  way,  these  heroes,  for  the  march  of 

future  years: 
The  march  was  Civilization — and  they  werje  its  Pioneers. 

Now  through  a  nation's  sinning 

They  are  building  a  bridge  so  wide 
That  those  at  the  work's  beginning 
Scarce  dreamed  of  the  other  side. 
They  spared  no  thought  for  a  future  with  the  need  for 

"  now  "  so  plain  ; 
They   sowed   for   others'    reaping — they   have   died    for 
others'  gain. 

And  what  has  gone  to  the  making? 

Courage  and  sacrifice. 
And  a  thirst  that  knows  no  slaking 
For  the  Right  at  any  price; 
Comradeship  caring  nothing  for  riches  or  rank  or  birth, 
For  builders  like  these  build  only  with  things  of  eternal 
worth. 


WAR  VERSE  119 

Be  comforted,  wives  and  molhers ! 

Your  men,  in  iheir  splendid  youth, 
With  a  thousand  thousand  others, 
Have  opened  the  ua}   for  Truth, 
They  are  huilding  into  a  future  where  terror  and  strife 

shall  cease; 
And  the  span  of  the  bridge  is  Honor,  and  the  goal  that 
it  leads  to — Peace. 

Evelyn  Simms. 
The  Bookman. 


I20  WAR  VERSE 


MATER  DOLOROSA 

What  have  I  given  thee, 

England,  beloved  of  me? 
I  have  no  gold  for  thy  desolate, 
I  have  no  spear  to  guard  thy  gate. 
My  hands  are  weak  on  the  harp  of  fate 

In  the  hour  of  threnody. 

Yet  I  have  given,  I ; 

And,  England,  my  gifts  lie 
Far  from  thee  and  thy  sacred  strand. 
I  have  given  the  hand  that  held  my  hand. 
The  feet  that  once  on  my  palm  could  stand, 

The  hopes  I  was  nourished  by. 

All  that  I  had,  I  give. 

The  life  that  I  bade  live. 
The  heart  that  my  heart  made  to  beat, 
The  lips  erstwhile  on  my  lips  so  sweet — 
These  have  I  given ;  is  it  not  meet 

To  have  striven  that  thou  mayst  strive? 

The  clay  of  France  doth  shrine 

This  only  gift  of  mine; 
England,  be  it  not  made  in  vain. 
Be  but  thy  glory  great  as  our  pain. 
We  are  glad  to  have  given — would  give  again 

The  light  of  our  days  for  thine ! 

The  British  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  121 


LIFE'S  FAVORITE 

Life  she  loved  him — she  seemed  the  slave, 
Slave  of  his  lightest  and  least  desire; 

And  so  to  his  glorious  youth  she  gave 
Glory  that  youths  admire. 

Gifts  she  gave  him  of  strength  and  skill, 
Gave  him  lordship  of  teams  and  crews, 

With  the  Love  of  the  Game  and,  belter  still, 
Of  playing  it,  win  or  lose. 

An  Eton  spell  and  an  Oxford  spell, 
Pride  of  tradition  and  lore  of  shop. 

Worship  of  friends  who  spake  him  well, 
With  the  run  of  the  Club  and  Pop. 

All  good  pleasures  w^ould  come  his  way, 
All  good  men  give  him  nod  for  nod ; 

His  laugh  and  his  greeting  haunt  to-day 
Staircase  E  in  the  (Juad. 

*         *  ***** 

Then  why  did  her  favors  end  so  soon? 

Did  she  forsake,  betray,  forget. 
When  she  sent  him  with  his  platoon 

Over  the  parapet? 

Was  it  l)ecause  he  showed  her  praise 

In  his  glowing  self,  that  the  fear  would  strike 

Of  faded  charms  in  the  plcasureless  days. 
And  torture  her,  lover-like? 

Or  was  she  moved  b}'  a  greater  thought. 

And  dealt  with  him  still  as  friend  with  friend, 
In  bringing  the  wonderful  work  she  li.ul  wrought 

To  its  only  possible  end? 

Al.lKKl)  C"t»(li  KANK. 

The  Conihill  Mayacine. 


122  WAR  VERSE 


THE  CASUALTY  LIST 

Here  in  happy  England  the  fields  are  steeped  in  quiet, 

.Saving  for  larks'  song  and  drone  of  bumble  bees ; 
The  deep  lanes  are  decked  with  roses  all  a-riot, 

With  bryony  and  vetch  and  ferny  tapestries. 
O  here  a  maid  v^^ould  linger  to  hear  the  blackbird's  fluting, 

And  here  a  lad  might  pause  by  wind-berippled  wheat, 
The  lovers  in  the  bat's-light  would  hear  the  brown  owl's 
hooting 

Before  the  latticed  lights  of  home  recalled  their  lagging 
feet. 

But  over  there  in  France  the  grass  is  torn  and  trodden, 
Our  pastures  grow  moon  daisies,  but  theirs  are  strewn 
with  lead. 
The  fertile,  kindly  fields  are  harassed  and  blood-sodden, 
The   sheaves   they   bear   for   harvesting   will   be   our 
garnered  dead. 
But  here  the  lads  of  England,  in  peril  of  advancing. 
Have  laid  their  splendid  lives  down,  ungrudging  of  the 
cost ; 
The  record — just  their  names  here — means  a  moment's 
careless  glancing. 
But  who  can  tell  the  promise,  the  fulfilment  of  our  lost? 

Here  in  happy  England,  the  Summer  pours  her  treasure 

Of  grasses,  of  flowers  before  our  heedless  feet. 
The  swallow-haunted  streams  meander  at  their  pleasure 

Through  loosestrife  and  rushes  and  plumey  meadow- 
sweet. 
Yet   how   shall   we    forget   them,   the   young  men,   the 
splendid. 

Who  left  this  golden  heritage,  who  put  the  Summer  by. 
Who  kept  for  us  our  England  inviolate,  defended, 

But  by  their  passing  made  for  us  December  of  July  ? 

W.  L. 
7  he  IVestminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  123 


THE  TEST  OF  BATTLE 

We  are  not  good  at  shouting  in  the  street, 
At  waving  flags  or  tossing  caps  in  air; 

We  take  our  triumphs  as  we  take  defeat 

With  scarce  a  liint  of  having  turned  a  hair; 
And  so  our  pride  to-day 

Dechnes  to  boom  itself  the  German  way. 

Yet  we  are  proud  because  at  last,  at  last 
We  look  upon  the  dawn  of  our  desire; 

Because  the  weary  waiting-time  is  passed 
And  we  have  tried  our  temper  in  the  fire ; 
And,  proving  word  by  deed, 

Have  kept  the  faith  we  pledged  to  France  at  need. 

But  most  because,  from  mine  and  desk  and  mart, 
Springing  to  face  a  task  undreamed  before 

Oiu-  men,  inspired  to  play  their  prentice  part. 
Like  soldiers  lessoned  in  the  school  of  war, 
True  to  their  breed  and  name 

Went  flawless  through  the  fierce  baptismal  flame. 

And  he  who  brought  these  armies  into  life. 
And  on  them  set  the  imi)ress  of  his  will — 

Could  he  be  moved  by  sound  of  mortal  strife 
There  where  he  lies,  their  Captain,  cold  and  still 
Lnder  the  shrouding  tide, 

How  would  his  great  heart  stir  and  glow  with  pride  ! 

Owen  Seaman. 
Punch. 


124  WAR  VERSE 


WAR  RISKS 

"  Let  go  aft  "...     and  out  she  slides. 
Pitching  when  she  meets  the  tides.     .     .     . 
She  for  whom  our  cruisers  keep 
Lordly  vigil  in  the  deep.     .     .     . 
Sink  or  swim,  lads,  war  or  no, 
Let  the  poor  old  hooker  go ! 

Soon,  hull  down,  will  England's  shore, 
Smudged  and  faint,  be  seen  no  more: 
Soon  the  following  gulls  return 
Where  the  friendly  docklights  burn.     ,,    .     , 
Soon  the  cold  stars,  climbing  high, 
March  across  the  empty  sky.     .     .     . 
Empty  seas  beyond  her  bow 
(Lord,  she's  on  her  lonesome  now!) 

When  the  white  fog,  stooping  low. 
Folds  in  darkness  friend  and  foe     .     .     . 
When  the  fast  great  liners  creep 
Veiled  and  silent  through  the  deep     .     .     . 
When  the  hostile  searchlight's  eye 
Sweeps  across  the  midnight  sky     .     ,     . 
Lord  of  light  and  darkness,  then 
Stretch  Thy  wing  o'er  merchantmen  ! 

When  the  waters  known  of  old 
Death  in  dreadful  shape  may  hold     .     .     . 
When  the  mine's  black  treachery 
Secret  walks  the  insulted  sea     .     .     . 
(Lest  the  people  wait  in  vain 
For  their  cattle  and  their  grain). 
Since  Thy  name  is  mercy,  then, 
Lord,  be  kind  to  merchantmen ! 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  125 


TO  GREAT  BRITAIN 

Britain !  you  with  a  heart  of  flame 

One  as  in  days  gone  by. 
You  who  honor  your  Nelson's  name, 
How  could  you  hear  the  word  of  shame 

Nor  rise  and  give  it  the  lie ! 

Better  endure  war's  worst  of  ills, 

The  woe  of  a  hundred  hghts, 
Than  cower  behind  your  banks  and  tills 
And  smug  with  your  money,  your  mines,  your 
mills, 

Forswear  a  neighbor's  rights. 

For  how  could  you  hope  for  a  wide  world's  trust 

If,  traitor  by  land  and  sea, 
You  had  let  French  lilies  lie  in  the  dust, 
Nor  challenged  for  peace  the  war-lord's  lust 

And  struck  for  a  Europe  free? 

Fight  and  in  hope,  for  battle  is  banned. 

The  world  shall  yet  rejoice, 
For  the  peoples  rise  in  wrath  to  demand, 
Henceforth  no  war  shall  trouble  the  Irmd 

Except  at  a  people's  v(jice. 

H.  D.  Rawxsley, 
The  English  Review. 


126  WAR  VERSE 


MY  SON 

Here  is  his  little  cambric  frock 

That  I  laid  by  in  lavender  so  sweet, 

And  here  his  tiny  shoe  and  sock, 

I  made  with  loving  care  for  his  dear  feet. 

I  fold  the  frock  across  my  breast, 
And  in  imagination,  ah,  my  sweet, 

Once  more  I  hush  my  babe  to  rest, 

And  once  again  I  warm  those  little  feet. 

Where  do  those  strong  young  feet  now  stand  ? 

In  flooded  trench,  half  numb  to  cold  or  pain, 
Or  marching  through  the  desert  sand 

To  some  dread  place  that  they  may  never  gain. 

God  guide  him  and  his  men  to-day. 

Though  death  may  lurk  in  any  tree  or  hill, 

His  brave  young  spirit  is  their  stay, 

Trusting  in  that  they'll  follow  where  he  will. 

They  love  him  for  his  tender  heart. 
When  poverty  or  sorrow  asks  his  aid, 

But  he  must  see  each  do  his  part — 
Of  cowardice  alone  he  is  afraid. 

I  ask  no  honors  on  the  field. 

That  other  men  have  won  as  brave  as  he, 
I  only  pray  that  God  may  shield 

My  son,  and  bring  him  safely  back  to  me. 

Ada  Tyrrell. 
The  Saturday  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  127 


GOLD  STRIPES 
A  Canadian  Mother  Speaks 

My  Bert  'as  just  come  'ome  again;  'e  walks  a  little  lame, 
But  thank  the  Lord  'e's  got  'is  eyes,  'is  face  is  just  the 

same ; 
I'm  that  glad  the  shrapnel  miss'd  it,  I  could  look  at  'im  all 

day. 
Though  I'd  love  'im  just  as  dearly  if  the  'alf  was  shot 

away. 
'E  ain't  so  reg'lar  'andsome,  and  'e  ain't  so  ugly  too, 
Rut  just  an  average  looker,  the  same  as  me  and  you. 
And  lliere's  not  a  prouder  woman  in  Alberta,  I  believe, 
W'hen  I  go  out  walkin'  with  'im,  with  the  gold  stripes  on 

'is  sleeve. 

There's  one  'e  says  'e  got  by  bein'  just  a  bloomin'  fool ; 
Fair  mad  'e  was  that  day  the  Boches  bombed  an  infant 

school. 
There  was  cover  for  the  takin',  but   'c  couldn't   stitp  to 

take  it ; 
Through  blood  and  tears  'e  saw  their  line,  and  knew  'e 

'ad  to  break  it. 
The  other  times,  'e  says,  'twas  just  'is  duty  that  'e  done. 
And,  once,  I  know,  the  orficers  they  thank'd  'im  one  by 

one. 
.Sf)  every  day  I  thank  the  Lord  for  what  we  do  receive. 
When  I  walk  with  l>ert  in  khaki,  with  the  gold  stripes  on 

'is  sleeve. 

pLORENXt:  A.  ViCAKS. 

The  Westminster  Gazette. 


128  WAR  VERSE 


HIS  MAJESTY'S  MINE-SWEEPERS 

When  this  cruel  war  is  over  and  the  full  history  told. 
What  a  tale  of  deeds  upon  the  sea  that  story  will  unfold, 
Of  men  who  faced  a  sudden  death  in  many  an  awful  form, 
When  they  boldly  braved  for  Britain's  sake  the  battle  and 
the  storm ! 


We  are  thankful  for  our  battleships  that  proudly  ride  the 

wave, 
And  well  we  know  the  men  aboard  are  the  bravest  of  the 

brave, 
That  our  cruisers  and  destroyers  with  ever-ready  guns 
Are  always  keeping  watch  and  ward  against  the  prowling 

Huns. 

But  do  we  all  remember  the  glorious  work  of  these 
His  Majesty's  mine-sweepers  who  go  clearing  of  the  seas 
Of  dark  and  grim  and  deadly  shapes  that  have  hurled  to 

the  deep 
Many  hundred  gallant  fighting  men  now  sleeping  their 

last  sleep? 

The  fisher-lads  of  Britain  have  left  trawling  nets  and  lines 
To  handle  the  steel  hawser  and  go  groping  for  the  mines. 
The  hardy  men  from  merchant  ships  have  donned  the 

Navy  blue. 
And  are  helping  with  stout  hearts  and  hands  to  pull  the 

country  through. 

They  may  not  meet  an  enemy  exchanging  blow  for  blow, 
But  one  that  lurks  beneath  their  keels  wherever  they  may 

go. 
There  comes  no  stir  of  battle  their  spirits  to  inflame, 
Yet  day  by  day  a  deadly  risk  is  with  them  all  the  same. 


WAR  VERSE  129 

So  may  God  bless  these  gallant  men  who  keep  our  tide- 
ways free. 
And  never  lliiicii  from  duty  in  all  perils  of  the  sea, 
Who,  be  they  tishers,  merchant  jacks,or  Royal  Naval  tars, 
Are  saviors  of  our  Empire  in  the  greatest  of  all  wars. 

R.  O'D.  Ross-Lew  IN. 
Chambers's  Journal. 


I30  WAR  VERSE 


THE  HEART-CRY 

She  turned  the  page  of  wounds  and  death 
With  trembUng  fingers.     In  a  breath 
The  gladness  of  her  Hfe  became 
Naught  but  a  memory  and  a  name. 

Farewell!     Farewell!     I  might  not  share 
The  perils  it  was  yours  to  dare. 
Dauntless  you  fronted  death:  for  me 
Rests  to  face  life  as  fearlessly. 

F.  W.  BOURDILLON, 


WAR  VERbE  131 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

No  Man's  Land  is  an  eerie  sight 
At  early  dawn  in  the  pale  gray  light. 
Never  a  house  and  never  a  hedge 
In  No  Man's  Land  from  edge  to  edge, 
And  never  a  living  soul  walks  there 
To  taste  the  fresh  of  the  morning  air. ' 
Only  some  lumps  of  rotting  clay, 
That  were  friends  or  foemen  yesterday. 

What  are  the  bounds  of  No  Man's  Land? 
You  can  see  them  clearly  on  either  hand, 
A  mound  of  rag-bags  gray  in  the  sun. 
Or  a  furrow  of  brown  where  the  earthworks  run 
From  the  Eastern  hills  to  the  Western  sea, 
Through  field  or  forest  o'er  river  and  lea  ; 
N(j  man  may  pass  them,  l)Ut  aim  you  well 
And  Death  rides  across  on  the  bullet  or  shell. 

Rut  No  Man's  Land  is  a  goblin  sight 
When  patrols  crawl  over  at  dead  o'  night; 
Hochc  ov  I>ritish,  I5elgian  or  French, 
You  dice  with  death  when  you  cross  the  trench. 
\\  hen  the  "  rapid,"  like  fire-flies  in  the  dark. 
Flits  down  the  para])ct  spark  by  spark, 
And  you  dro|)  for  cf)\er  to  keep  your  head 
With  your  face  on  the  breast  of  the  four  months 
dead. 

The  man  who  ranges  in  No  Man's  Land 
Is  dogged  by  the  shadows  on  either  hand 
When  the  star-shell's  flare,  as  it  bin"sts  o'erhead, 
Scares  the  great  gray  rats  that  feed  on  the  dead, 


132  WAR  VERSE 

And  the  bursting  bomb  or  the  bayonet-snatch 
May  answer  the  cUck  of  your  safety-catch. 
For  the  lone  patrol,  with  his  hfe  in  his  hand, 
Is  hunting  for  blood  in  No  Man's  Land. 

J.  H.  Knight-Adkin, 
Capt.   Glosters. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  133 


VOLUNTEER 


/ 


Here  lies  a  clerk  who  half  his  life  had  spent 
Toilins:  at  ledjjers  in  a  city  gray, 
Thinking  that  so  his  days  would  drift  away 
With  no  lance  broken  in  life's  tournament: 
Yet  ever  'twixt  the  books  and  his  bright  eyes 
The  gleaming  eagles  of  the  legions  came. 
And  horsemen,  charging  under  phantom  skies, 
Went  thundering  past  beneath  the  oriflamme. 

And  now  those  waiting  dreams  are  satisfied; 
From  twilight  into  spacious  dawn  he  went; 
His  lance  is  broken ;  but  he  lies  content 
With  that  high  hour,  in  which  he  lived  and  died. 
And  falling  thus  he  wants  no  recompense, 
Who  found  his  battle  in  the  last  resort ; 
Nor  needs  he  any  hearse  to  bear  him  hence. 
Who  goes  to  join  the  men  of  Agincourt. 

Herbert  Asquith. 


134  WAR  VERSE 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  ROAD 

There's  a  breath  of  May  in  the  breeze 

On  the  httle  old  road; 
May  in  hedges  and  trees, 
May,  the  red  and  the  white, 
May  to  left  and  to  right 

Of  the  little  old  road. 

There's  a  ribbon  of  grass  either  side 

Of  the  little  old  road; 
It's  a  strip  just  so  wide, 
A  strip  nobody  owns. 
Where  a  man's  weary  bones 
When  he  feels  getting  old 
May  lie  crushing  the  gold 
Of  the  silverweed  flower 
For  a  long  lazy  hour 

By  the  little  old  road. 

There's  no  need  to  guide  the  old  mare 

On  the  little  old  road. 
She  knows  that  just  there 
Is  the  big  gravel  pit 
(How  we  played  in  it 
As  mites  of  boys 
In  our  old  corduroys !) 
And  that  here  is  the  pond 
With  the  poplars  beyond, 
And  more  May — always  May 
Away  and  away 

Down  the  little  old  road. 

There's  a  lot  to  make  a  man  glad 

On  the  little  old  road 
(It's  the  home-going  road). 
And  a  lot  to  make  him  sad. 


WAR  VERSE  135 

Ah !  he'd  hke  to  forget, 

But  he  can't,  not  just  yet, 

Willi  chai)s  still  out  there.     .     .     . 

She's  si()[)i)ing,  the  steady  old  mare. 

Is  it  here  the  road  bends  ? 

So  the  long  journey  ends 

At  the  end  of  the  old  road, 

The  little  old  road. 

There's  some  one,  you  say,  at  the  gate 
Of  the  little  old  house  by  the  road? 

Is  it  Mother?     Or  Kate? 

And  they're  not  going  to  mind 

That,  since  "  Wypers,"  I'm  blind, 

And  the  road  is  a  long  dark  road? 

Gi:rtrudi-:  Vaughan. 
The  New  iritness. 


136  WAR  VERSE 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade ; 

When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 

And  apple  blossoms  fill  the  air — 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land, 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath — 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow  flowers  appear. 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  on  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear — 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death, 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year. 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

Alan  Seeger. 

By  permission  from  "  Poems  by  Alan  Seeger." 
Copyright,  1916,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


WAR  VERSE  137 


THE  LIVING  LINE 

(March,  ipiS) 

As  long  as  faith  and  freedom  last, 
And  earth  goes  round  the  sun, 

This  stands — The  Piritish  line  held  fast 
And  so  the  hght  was  won. 

The  greatest  fight  that  ever  yet 
lirought  all  the  world  to  dearth ; 

A  fight  of  two  great  nations  set 
To  battle  for  the  earth. 

And  one  was  there  with  blood  aflame 
To  make  the  earth  his  tool; 

And  one  was  there  in  freedom's  name 
That  mercy  still  should  rule. 

It  was  a  line,  a  living  line 

Of  Britain's  gallant  youth 
That  fought  the  Prussian  one  to  nine 

And  saved  the  world  for  ruth. 

That  bleeding  line,  that  falling  fence, 
That  stubborn  ebbing  wave, 

That  string  of  suffering  human  sense, 
Shuddered,  but  never  gave. 

A  living  line  of  human  flesh, 

It  (|uivered  like  a  brain  ; 
Swarm  after  swarm  came  on  afresh 

And  crashed,  but  crashed  in  vain. 

Outnumbered  by  the  mightiest  foe 

That  ever  sought  to  put 
The  world  in  chains,  they  met  the  blow 

And  fought  him  foot  by  foot. 


138  WAR  VERSE 

They  fought  his  masses,  falHng  back, 
They  poured  their  blood  hke  wine, 

And  never  once  the  vast  attack 
Smashed  through  that  Hving  Une. 

It  held,  it  held,  while  all  the  world 
Looked  on  with  strangled  breath; 

It  held;  again,  again  it  hurl'd 
Man's  memory  to  death. 

Bleeding  and  sleepless,  dazed  and  spent. 

And  bending  like  a  bow. 
Backward  the  lads  of  Britain  went 

Their  faces  to  the  blow. 

And  day  went  by,  and  night  came  in, 
And  when  the  moon  was  gone 

Murder  burst  out  with  fiercer  din, 
And  still  the  fight  went  on. 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
Outnumbered  nine  to  one, 

In  agony  that  none  may  write 
Those  young  men  held  the  Hun. 

And  this  is  their  abiding  praise 

No  future  shall  undo : 
Not  once  in  all  those  staggering  days 

The  avalanche  broke  thro'. 

Retreat,  retreat,  yea,  still  retreat, 

But  fighting  one  to  nine, 
Just  knowing  there  was  no  defeat 

If  they  but  held  the  line. 

Ah,  never  yet  did  men  more  true 
Or  souls  more  finely  wrought 

From  Cressy  down  to  Waterloo 
Fight  as  these  young  men  fought. 


WAR  VERSE  139 

On  whose  ^reat  hearts  the  fate  of  all 
Mankind  was  pcnsed  that  hour 

Which  saw  the  Prussian  War  God  fall 
And  Christ  restored  to  pow'r. 

The  world  shall  tell  how  they  stood  fast, 

And  how  the  Tight  was  won, 
As  long  as  faith  and  freedom  last 

And  earth  goes  round  the  sun. 

Harold  Bi:gbik. 
The  Loiidon  Chronicle. 


140  WAR  VERSE 


THE  MARCH 

I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "  Make  way  for  those  who 

died !  " 
And  all  the  colored  crowd  like  ghosts  at  morning  fled ; 
And  down  the  waiting  road,  rank  after  rank  there  strode, 
In  mute  and  measured  march  a  hundred  thousand  dead. 

A  hundred  thousand  dead,  with  firm  and  noiseless  tread, 
All  shadowy-gray  yet  solid,  with  faces  gray  and  ghast. 
And  by  the  house  they  went,  and  all  their  brows  were  bent 
Straight    forward ;   and   they   passed,    and   passed,   and 
passed,  and  passed. 

But  O  there  came  a  place,  and  O  there  came  a  face, 
That  clenched  my  heart  to  see  it,  and  sudden  turned  my 

way; 
And  in  the  face  that  turned  I  saw  two  eyes  that  burned, 
Never- forgotten  eyes,  and  they  had  things  to  say. 

Like  desolate  stars  they  shone  one  moment,  and  were 

gone. 
And  I  sank  down  and  put  my  arms  across  my  head, 
And  felt  them  moving  past,  nor  looked  to  see  the  last, 
In  steady  silent  march,  our  hundred  thousand  dead. 

J.  C.  Squire. 
The  New  Statesman. 


WAR  VERSE  141 


THE  BROKEN  SOLDIER 

The  broken  soldier  sings  and  whistles  day  to  dark, 

lie's  but  the  remnant  of  a  man,  maimed  and  half-blind ; 

r.ut  the  soul  they  could  not  harm  goes  singing  like  the  lark, 
Like  the  incarnate  Joy  that  will  not  be  conhned. 

The  Lady  at  the  Hall  has  given  him  a  light  task ; 

He  works  in  the  gardens  as  busy  as  a  bee ; 
One  hand  is  but  a  stump  and  his  face  a  pitted  mask; 

The  gay  soul  goes  singing  like  a  bird  set  free. 

Whistling  and  singing  like  a  linnet  on  wings, 
The  others  stop  to  listen,  leaning  on  the  spade; 

Whole  men  and  comely,  they  fret  at  little  things. 
The  soul  of  him's  singing  like  a  thrush  in  a  glade. 

Hither  and  thither  hopping,  like  Robin  on  the  grass. 
The  soul  in  the  broken  man  is  beautiful  and  brave; — 

And  while  he  weeds  the  pansies  and  the  bright  hours  pass 
The  bird  caught  in  the  cage  whistles  in  joyous  stave. 

Katharine  Tynan. 
The  U'cshninstcr  Gazette. 


142  WAR  VERSE 


THE  LONE  HAND 

She  took  her  tide  and  she  passed  the  Bar  with  the  first  o' 

the  morning  Hght ; 
She  dipped  her  flag  to  the  coast  patrol  at  the  coming  down 

of  the  night ; 
She  has  left  the  lights  of  the  friendly  shore  and  the  smell 
of  the  English  land, 
And  she's  somewhere  South  o'  the  Fastnet  now — 
God  help  her     .     .     .     South  o'  the  Fastnet  now, 
Playing  her  own  lone  hand. 

She  is  ugly  and  squat  as  a  ship  can  be,  she  was  new  when 

the  Ark  was  new, 
But  she  takes  her  chance  and  she  runs  her  risk  as  well  as 

the  best  may  do ; 
And  it's  little  she  heeds  the  lurking  death  and  little  she 
gets  of  fame, 
Out  yonder  South  o'  the  Fastnet  now — 
God  help  her     .     .     .     South  o'  the  Fastnet  now. 
Playing  her  own  lone  game. 

She  has  played  it  once,  she  has  played  it  twice,  she  has 

played  it  times  a  score ; 
Her  luck  and  her  pluck  are  the  two  trump  cards  that 

have  won  her  the  game  before ; 
And  life  is  the  stake  where  the  tin  fish  run  and  Deatli  is 
the  dealer's  name, 
Out  yonder  South  o'  the  Fastnet  now — 
God  help  her     .     .     .     South  o'  the  Fastnet  now, 
Playing  her  own  lone  game. 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  143 


THE  TOLL-PAYERS 

Children,  to-day  made  fatherless, 

And  mothers,  mourniiiij;  for  your  sons, — 

Oh,  not  from  you  in  your  distress 

Is  wrun^  in  all  its  bitterness 
llie  tribute  of  the  guns. 

You,  who  are  young  will  soon  forget 

This  tragic  toll  upon  the  road, 
In  hapj)y  years,  undreamed  of  yet, 
\\  hen  }(ju  will  reap  without  regret 

The  seed  your  fathers  sowed. 

And  mothers,  though  you  hide  despair 
Deep  in  your  hearts,  can  you  not  smile 

To  show  that  you,  whose  sons  could  dare 

So  greatly,  can  unflinching  bear 
Your  burden  for  a  while? 

Men,  who  were  young  when  you  were  young. 

Walk  with  you  in  your  evening's  shade, 
And  as  tlie  dark  with  stars  is  hung 
For  light,  you  guard,  like  jewels  strung. 
Thoughts  of  the  men  you  made. 

Recalling  for  a  little  space 

Your  happy  soldiers,  not  bereft 
Of  hope  that  they,  in  some  fair  place 
Of  peace,  will  welcome  face  to  face 

The  mothers  that  they  left. 

But  what  remains  to  us,  who  knew 
No  memories  they  did  not  share, 
The  brothers  and  the  boys  who  grew 
Through  da)s  and  years  beside  us,  who 
Were  part  of  all  we  were? 


144  WAR  VERSE 

For  every  light  is  quenched,  that  shone 

For  us,  about  Love's  diadem. 
And  every  hope  we  dreamed  upon, 
Our  future,  and  our  past,  is  gone 

Into  the  dark  with  them. 

And  gazing  on,  the  tumult  clears. 

Fades,  and  is  gone, — and  Life  survives. 
Unveiled  by  any  mist  of  tears 
We  see  the  long  and  empty  years* 
Of  our  unmenaced  lives. 

When  Time  will  change  us,  until  we 

Shall  be  as  strangers  when  we  go 
To  greet  our  own,  and  though  we  see 
Them  look  for  us,  we  shall  not  be 
The  friends  they  used  to  know. 

Alison  Lindsay. 
The  Cornhill  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  145 


/ 


MORITURI  TE  SALUTANT 

In  ihis  last  hour,  before  ihe  bugles  blare 
The  summons  of  the  dawn,  we  turn  again 
To  )-ou,  dear  country,  you  whom  unaware, 
Throuij;h  summer  years  of  idle  selfishness. 
We  still  have  loved — who  loved  us  none  the  less. 
Knowing  the  destined  hour  would  find  us  men. 

O  thrill  and  laughter  of  the  busy  town ! 

O  flower-valleys,  trees  against  the  skies, 

Wild  moor  and  woodland,  glade  and  sweeping  down, 

O  land  of  our  desire!  like  men  asleep 

W'e  have  let  pass  the  years,  nor  felt  you  creep 

So  close  into  our  heart's  dear  sanctities. 

.•so,  we  are  dreamers ;  but  our  dreams  are  cast 
Henceforward  in  a  more  heroic  mould; 
W^e  have  kept  faith  with  our  immortal  past. 
Knights — we  have  found  the  lady  of  our  love, 
Minstrels — have  heard  great  harmonies,  above 
The  lyrics  that  enraptured  us  of  old. 

The  dawn's  aglow  with  luster  of  the  sun     .     .     . 
O  love,  O  burning  passion,  that  has  made 
Our  day  illustrious  till  its  hours  are  done — 
Fire  our  dull  hearts,  that,  in  our  sun's  eclipse. 
When  Death  stoops  low  to  kiss  us  on  the  lips, 
He  still  may  find  us  .singing,  unafraid. 

One  thing  we  know,  that  love  so  greatly  spent 
Dies  not  when  lovers  die :  From  hand  to  hand 
We  pass  the  torch  and  perish — well  content, 
If  in  dark  years  to  come  our  countrymen 
I'^eel  the  divine  flame  lea])  in  them  again, 
And  so  remember  us  and  understand. 

I'.  11.  II  L. 
The  Spectator. 


146  WAR  VERSE 


ON  PATROL 
To 

He  went  to  sea  on  the  long  patrol, 
Away  to  the  East  from  the  Gorton  Shoal, 

But  now  he's  overdue. 
He  signaled  me  as  he  bore  away 
A  flickering  lamp  through  leaping  spray, 
And  darkness  then  till  judgment  day, 

"  So  long !     Good  luck  to  you  !  " 

He's  waiting  out  on  the  long  patrol. 

Till  the  names  are  called  at  the  muster-roll 

Of  seamen  overdue. 
Far  above  him,  in  wind  and  rain, 
Another  is  on  patrol  again — 
The  gap  is  closed  in  the  Naval  Ghain 

Where  all  the  links  are  new. 


Over  his  head  the  seas  are  white, 
And  the  wind  is  blowing  a  gale  to-night. 

As  if  the  Storm-King  knew, 
And  roared  a  ballad  of  sleet  and  snow 
To  the  man  that  lies  on  the  sand  below, 
A  trumpet-song  for  the  winds  to  blow 

To  seamen  overdue. 


Was  it  sudden  or  slow — the  death  that  came? 
Roaring  water  or  sheets  of  flame? 

The  end  with  none  to  view? 
No  man  can  tell  us  the  way  he  died, 
But  over  the  clouds  Valkyries  ride 
To  open  the  gates  and  hold  them  wide 

For  seamen  overdue. 


WAR  VERSE  147 

But  whether  the  end  was  swift  or  slow, 
By  the  Hand  of  God,  or  a  German  blow, 

My  messmate  overdue — 
You  went  to  Death — and  the  whisper  ran 
As  over  the  Gates  the  Iiorns  began 
Splendor  of  God!     ll'e  have  found  a  man! 

Ciood-bye  !     Good  luctc  to  you  ! 

Blackwood's  Magazine. 


148  WAR  VERSE 


NEW  HEAVEN 

Paradise  now  has  many  a  Knight, 

Many  a  lordkin,  many  lords, 
GHmmer  of  armor,  dinted  and  bright, 

The  young  Knights  have  put  on  new  swords. 

.  Some  have  barely  the  down  on  the  lip. 
Smiling  yet  from  the  new-won  spurs. 
Their  wounds  are  rubies,  glowing  and  deep, 
Their  scars  amethyst — glorious  scars. 

Michael's  army  hath  many  new  men, 
Gravest  Knights  that  may  sit  in  stall, 

Kings  and  Captains,  a  shining  train. 

But  the  little  young  Knights  are  dearest  of  all. 

Paradise  now  is  the  soldiers'  land, 

Their  own  country  its  shining  sod. 
Comrades  all  in  a  merry  band ; 

And  the  young  Knights'  laughter  pleaseth  God. 

Katharine  Tynan. 
The  Nation. 


WAR  VliRSE  149 


FLANDERS  1915 

The  men  go  out  to  Flanders 

As  to  a  promised  land ; 
The  men  come  back  from  Flanders 

With  eyes  that  understand. 

They've  drunk  their  fill  of  blood  and  wrath, 

Of  sleeplessness  and  pain, 
Yet  silently  to  Flanders 

They  hasten  back  again. 

In  the  Low-lands  of  Flanders 

A  patient  watch  they  keep ; 
The  living  and  the  dead  watch  there 

Whilst  we  are  sound  asleep. 

Margaret  Sackville. 
The  Outlook. 


I50  WAR  VERSE 


/ 


/ 


HE  IS  DEAD  WHO  WILL  NOT  FIGHT 

The  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring, 

And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees 
Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying, 

And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze ; 
And  Life  is  Color  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these ; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight ; 

And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 

Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth ; 
Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run. 

And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth  ; 
And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 

Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 

The  Dog-Star  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together. 
They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend ; 

They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather ; 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridges'  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day. 

And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night, 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they. 
As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him,  "  Brother,  brother, 
If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing, 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another; 
Brother,  sing." 


WAR  VERSE  151 

In  dreary  doubtful  waiting  hours, 

r>efore  the  brazen  frenzy  starts, 
The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers ; 

O  patient  eyes,  courageous  hearts ! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks. 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind, 

And  only  Joy-of-Battle  takes 

Him  by  the  throat,  and  makes  him  blind. 

Through  joy  and  blindness,  he  shall  know, 

Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still 
Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 

That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands. 
And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings ; 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands. 
And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 

Julian  Grenfell. 


152  ■  WAR  VERSE 


IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 

Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place ;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 

Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead.     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe : 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 

The  torch ;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 

If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 

John  McCrae. 
Punch. 


/ 


WAR  VERSE  153 


FAREWELL  TO  ANZAC 

Oh !  lump  your  swag  and  leave,  lads,  the  ships  are  in 

the  bay. 
We've  got  our  marching  orders  now,  it's  time  to  come 

awa}', 
And  a  long  good-bye  to  Anzac  beach,  where  blood  has 

flowed  in  vain, 
For  we're  leaving  it,  leaving  it, — game  to  fight  again ! 

But  some  there  are  will  never  quit  this  bleak  and  l)loody 

shore, 
And  some  that  marched  and  fought  with  us  will  tight  and 

march  no  more ; 
Their  blood  has  bought  till  judgment  day  the  slopes  they 

stormed  so  well, 
And  we're  leaving  them,  leaving  them,  sleeping  where 

they  fell ! 

(Leaving  them,  leaving  them, — the  bravest  and  the  best! 
Leaving  them,  leaving  them, — and  maybe  glad  to  rest ! 
We  did  our  best  with  yesterday,  to-morrow's   still   our 

own, — 
But  we're  leaving  them,  leaving  them,  sleeping  all  alone!) 


Ay,  they  are  gone  beyond  it  all,  the  praising  and  the  blame, 
And  many  a  man  may  win  renown,  but  none  more  fair 

a  fame ; 
They  showed  the  world  Australia's  lads  knew  well  the 

way  to  die. 
And  we're  leaving  them,  leaving  them,  qxuct  where  they 

lie! 


154  WAR  VERSE 

(Leaving  them,  leaving  them,  sleeping  where  they  died! 
Leaving   them,   leaving  them,   in   their   glory  and   their 

pride ! 
Round  the  sea  and  barren  land,  over  them  the  sky, 
Oh !  we're  leaving  them,  leaving  them,  quiet  where  thev 
lie!) 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  155 


THE  AMAZONS 

They  fill  the  fields  in  mighty  throng, 
Their  spirits  loosed  by  anxious  sleep; 

Their  care-worn  souls  are  borne  along 
Across  far  lands  and  stormy  deep. 

There  is  no  battle  hardly  won 

In  which  a  hero  plays  a  part, 
And  falls  to  bullet,  sword,  or  gun, 

But  bleeds  with  his  a  mother's  heart. 

The  shrapnel  shell,  the  bayonet  thrust, 
Which  sends  the  soldier  boy  to  rest. 

And  lays  high  hopes  low  in  the  dust, 

Deep  wounds  some  watching  woman's  breast. 

No  battle  pride  nor  glorious  stir. 
No  wild  red  charge  her  will  upkeeps. 

But  tears  and  care,  and  pangs  for  her ; 
She  prays  and  suffers,  longs  and  weeps. 

She  gets  no  honors  or  reward. 
Such  gauds  are  issued  to  her  boy; 

But  in  her  love  she  can  afford 

Him,  comrade  of  her  fights,  the  Joy, 

Richard  A.  Crouch. 

Gallipoli,  November  2^,  1(^15. 
The  Saturday  Review. 


156  WAR  VERSE 


"  WHEN  THERE  IS  PEACE  " 

"  When  there  is  Peace,  this  land  no  more 
Will  be  the  land  we  knew  of  yore." 
Thus  do  the  facile  seers  foretell 
The  truth  that  none  can  buy  or  sell 
And  e'en  the  wisest  must  ignore. 

When  we  iiave  bled  at  every  pore, 
Shall  we  still  strive  for  gear  and  store? 
Will  it  be  Heaven,  will  it  be  Hell, 
When  there  is  Peace? 

This  let  us  pray  for — this  implore — 
That,  all  base  dreams  thrust  out  at  door, 
We  may  in  nobler  aims  excel, 
And,  like  men  waking  from  a  spell, 
Grow  stronger,  worthier  than  before. 
When  there  is  Peace  ! 

Austin   Dobson. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  157 


THE  MARTYRED  NATION 

Out  of  the  deafening  boom  and  crash,  out  of  the  stifling 

reek 
Above  the  shouting  of  vahant  men  and  the  heart-drawn 

moans  of  the  weak, 
Over  the  press  of  a  conquering  host  and  over  the  battle- 
cries, 
Hear  ye  the  voice  of  Belgium  floating  toward  the  skies: 
"  W'hat    was    the    charge    against    me?     What    had    I 

done  amiss 
That  the  dastardly  Hun  should  visit  me  with  a  penalty 

great  as  this? 
P.lasting  me  off  creation  !    Strii)ping  my  flesh  and  bone ! 
I  had  no  lot  in  his  quarrel,  I  did  but  defend  mine  own." 

Over  the  thundering  cannon's  roar,  over  the  trumpet's 

blare, 
Over  the  smash  of  falling  stone  and  the  lurid,  leaping 

glare, 
Over  the  pant  of  madden'd  men  and  the  scream  of  hurt- 
ling shell. 
Hear  ye  the  voice  of  England,  clear  as  a  twilight  bell : 
"  Oh!  lion-hearted  nation,  bravest  of  all  the  braves, 
For  your  splendid  sake  my  stalwart  sons  are  si)ecding 

across  the  waves ; 
So  set  vour  teeth  in  your  travail,  Fleming  and  bold 

W'a'lloon  ; 
I  will  place  you  back  in  your  olden  state,  I  will  see  you 
righted  soon." 

Over  the  earth's  wide  surface  in  every  human  heart 
There's  a  throb  for  the  stricken  nati(Mi  that  so  gallantly 

plaved  her  part, 
That   suffered  hell's  keenest   torture,  yet   fell   with   her 

flag  unfurl'd. 
But  hark  to  that  rising  murmur,  the  voice  oi  the  outer 

world : 


158  WAR  VERSE 

"  Death  to  the  fell  destroyer !     Down  with  the  lustful 

Hun! 
England,  mother  of  pity,  see  that  the  work  is  done. 
See  that  this  martyred  nation  lives  through  the  night 

of  pain 
To  rise,  avenged,  in  the  morning  and  come  to  her  own 

again." 

W.  H.  Gadsdon. 
The  Academy. 


WAR  VERSE  159 


ON  PATROL— 1797 

Our  brothers  of  the  landward  side 

Are  bound  by  Church  and  stall, 

By  Councils  Qicumenical, 

By  Gothic  arches  tall, 

But  we  who  know  the  cold  gray  sea, 

The  salt  and  fl}ing  spray. 

We  praise  the  Lord  in  our  fathers'  way, 

In  the  simple  faith  of  the  sea  we  pray 

To  the  (iod  that  the  winds  and  waves  obey. 

Who  sailed  on  Galilee. 

We  pray  as  the  Flag-Lieutenant  prayed 
At  St.  Vincent's  cabin  door 
(Twenty  sail  of  the  line  in  view — 
Southwest  by  south  they  bore), 
"  Oh,  Lord  of  Hosts — I  praise  Thee  now, 
And  bow  before  Thy  might — 
Who  has  given  us  fingers  and  hands  to  fight. 
And  twenty  ships  of  the  line  in  sight — 
Thou  knewest,oh,Lord — and  placed  them  right- 
To  leeward  on  the  bow." 

Blackwood's  Marjacine. 


i6o  WAR  VERSE 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 

"  When  this  here  War  is  done,"  says  Dan,  "  and  all  the 
fightin's  through 
There's  some'U  pal  with  Fritz  again  as  they  was  used 

to  do ; 
But  not  me,"  says  Dan  the  sailor-man,  "  not  me,"  says 
he; 
"  Lord  knows  it's  nippy  in  an  open  boat  on  winter  nights 
at  sea. 

"  When  the  last  battle's  lost  an'  won,  an'  won  or  lost  the 
game. 

There's  some'll  think  no  'arm  to  drink  with  squareheads 
just  the  same; 

But  not  me,"  says  Dan  the  sailor-man,  "  an'  if  you  ask 
me  why — 

Lord  knows  it's  thirsty  in  an  open  boat  when  the  water- 
breaker's  dry. 

"  When  all  the  bloomin'  mines  is  swep'  an'  ships  are  sunk 

no  more, 
There's  some'll  set  them  down  to  eat  with  Germans 

as  before ; 
But  not  me,"  says  Dan  the  sailor-man,  "  not  me,  for 

one — 
Lord  knows  it's  hungry  in  an  open  boat  when  the  last 

biscuit's  done. 

"  When  peace  is  signed  and  treaties  made  an'  trade  be- 
gins again 

There's  some'll  shake  a  German's  'and  an'  never  see 
the  stain ; 

But  not  me,"  says  Dan  the  sailor-man,  "  not  me,  as 
God's  on  high — 

Lord  knows  it's  bitter  in  an  open  boat  to  see  your  ship- 
mates die." 

C.  Fox  Smith. 

Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  i6i 


LONDON  TROOPS 

While  they  endure  the  moaning  fray,  the  fret,  the  pain, 
the  sight  of  it. 
They  build  across  the  flaming  field  the  ways  of  London 
Town, 
The  little  streets,  the  broad  while  roads,  the  bustle  and 
the  light  of  it, 
The  winding  whispering  river,  and  the  parks  in  green 
and  brown ! 
\bove  the  reeking  Somme  they  see  St.  Paul's  with  smokes 
that  cover  it, 
Gray  wreaths  of  smoke,  and  flakes  of  sun,  and  brown 
birds  on  the  wing. 
And  by  Pcronne  the  Thames  is  set  with  barges  moving 
over  it. 
And  Chelsea  bridges  shoot  away  through  mists  where 
bullets  sing! 

Brave  London  troops !     They  give  their  flesh,  their  hands, 
their  eyes,  the  all  of  them, 
They    face   the    furious   bayonet,   the   cannon's   deep- 
mouthed  boom. 
And  oh  !  it  is  for  London's  sake  that  they  have  stretched 
the  wall  of  them 
Between  the  raging  foemen  and  the  town  of  gleam  and 
gloom ! 
She  is  their  love,  their  recompense,  a  lodestar  for  the 
hosts  of  them, 
They  sing  of  her  when  they  go  down  to  win  their  bitter 
scars, 
And  if  they  fall — her  guardians  still  shall  be  the  sentry- 
ghosts  of  them. 
Lined,  cold  and  silent,   round  her  walls  beneath  the 
marshaled  stars ! 

The  Loudon  Chronicle. 


i62  WAR  VERSE 


"  V.A.D." 

We  in  the  busy  ward 

Stay  not  to  dream ;  for  God  has  closed  our  eyes 

Lest,  fronted  by  your  giant  sacrifice, 

O  brothers  maimed  and  pale. 

The  hearts  that  seek  to  serve  you,  faint  and  fail ! 

We,  handmaids  of  your  pain,  pass  onward 
And  speak  not  of  your  glory ;  God  has  hung 
His  silence  on  our  lips,  lest  praises  sung 
Scare  your  mirth-makings. 
And  break  your  happy  talk  of  trivial  things. 

This  be  our  sacrifice. 

You  who  have  given  all  for  one  great  Dream ! 
Steadfast  enduring  at  the  sober  task 
Of  days  and  nights  that  seem 
Gray-winged  and  glamourless — we  will  not  ask 
For  flashing  visions  of  an  earlier  day ; 
And — if  it  serve  you,  brothers — dreamless  be  our 
way! 

Hither  have  brought  us 

Those  years  wherein  we  chased  the  flying  moon, 

Sought  the  blue  roses,  sailed  the  seas  of  June — 

Into  this  quiet  shade 

Where  Vision  sleeps,  and  Youth  to  rest  is  laid. 

Through  song  and  laughter,  through  the  woods  of 

Spring 
(Our  youth  had  taught  us) 
We  came  with  dancing  step  and  lute  playing 
Most  tender-sweet, 
Only  for  this — to  kneel  and  wash  your  feet. 

4:  4:  *  3|e  9t:  * 


WAR  VERSE  163 

O  Sacrament  iinguessed  beside  the  lowly  bed ! 

Not  you,  not  you  alone 

Wait  on  our  care.     Perchance  there  waiteth  One 

(And  }et  we  cannot  see) 

\\  ho  for  our  sake  hath  walked  among  the  dead ; 

\A'hose  Feet  His  daughters  wash,  as  once  in  Bethany. 

Yet,  if  He  will, 

His  Hand  be  on  our  eyes,  that  we  go  sightless  still. 

Mary  Adair  Macdonald. 
The  Spectator. 


1^4,  WAR  VERSE 


THE  FAITHFUL  COMRADE 

Where  stark  and  shattered  walls 

Mourn  desolate  to  the  sky 
He  buildeth  me  a  home, 

And  well  doth  fortify. 

The  sweeping  scythes  play  near 

And  shrill  about  my  head: 
I  look  into  His  eyes 

That  smile  away  my  dread. 

And  when  with  faltering  feet 
I  thread  the  perilous  trench, 

His  print  the  clay  before 
And  shame  me  if  I  blench. 

n  nerve  and  spirit  yield 

Before  the  grim  demands, 
New  power  is  in  the  touch 

Of  His  transfigured  hands. 

The  thousand  barbarous  tongues 
Of  war  may  round  me  brawl ; 

His  love  within  my  heart 
Sings  louder  than  them  all. 

O  edgeless  armament ! 

O  empty  jeopardy ! 
While  He,  my  Comrade,  walks 

The  stricken  fields  with  me. 

P.  J.  Fisher. 
The  Saturday  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  165 


"  HEY !  JOCK,  ARE  YE  GLAD  YE  LISTED?  " 

Drums: 

Hey !  Jock,  are  ye  glad  ye  listed? 

O  Jock,  but  ye're  far  f rae  hame ! 
What  d'ye  think  o'  the  tields  o'  Flanders? 

Jockey  lad,  are  ye  glad  ye  came? 
Wet  rigs  we  wrought  in  the  land  o'  Lennox, 

When  Hielan  hills  were  smeared  wi'  snaw ; 
Deer  we  chased  through  the  seepin'  heather, 

But  the  glaur  o'  Flanders  dings  them  a' ! 

Blytli,  blyth,  and  merry  7va.s'  she, 
Blytli  was  she  but  and  ben ; 

And  weel  she  loo'd  a  Hazvick  gill, 
And  Icugh  to  sec  a  tappit  hen. 

This  is  no'  the  Fair  o'  Balloch, 

Sunday  claes  and  a  penny  reel ; 
It's  no'  for  dancin'  at  a  bridal 

Willie  Lawrie's  bagpipes  S(|ueal. 
Men  are  to  kill  in  the  morn's  nKjniin', 

Here  ye're  back  to  your  daddies'  trade ; 
Naething  for't  but  to  cock  your  bonnet, 

Buckle  on  graith  and  kiss  the  maid. 

The  Comal's  yonder  deid  in  tartan, 

Sinclair's  sheuched  in  Neuve  h'glise, 
Slipped  awa'  wi'  the  sodgcr's  fever, 

Kinder  than  ony  auld  man's  disease. 
Scotland  !  Scotland  !  little  we're  due  ye. 

Poor  employ  and  a  skim-milk  board, 
But  youth's  a  cream  thai  maun  be  paid  for, 

We  got  it  reamin',  so  draw  the  sword ! 


i66  WAR  VERSE 

Come  awa',  Jock,  and  cock  your  bonnet ! 

Swing  your  kilt  as  best  ye  can; 
Auld  Dumbarton's  Drums  are  dirlin', 

Come  awa',  Jock,  and  kill  your  man ! 
Far,  far's  the  cry  to  Leven  Water 

Where  your  fore- folks  went  to  war — 
They  would  swap  wi'  us  to-morrow 

Even  in  the  Flanders  glaur ! 

Blyth,  hlyth,  and  merry  was  she, 
Blyth  was  she  but  and  ben; 

And  weel  she  loo'd  a  Hawick  gill. 
And  leugh  to  see  a  tappit  hen. 

Neil  Munro. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  167 


HE  PRAYED 

He  prayed, 

There  where  he  lay, 

Blood-sodden  and  unkempt. 

As  never  in  his  young  gay  carelessness  he'd  dreamt 

That  he  could  pray. 

He  prayed; 

Not  that  the  pain  should  cease. 

Nor  yet  for  water  in  the  parching  heat. 

Nor  for  death's  quick  release. 

Nor  even  for  the  tardy  feet 

Of  stretcher-bearers  bringing  aid. 

He  prayed; 

Cast  helpless  on  the  bloody  sod : 
"  Don't  trouble  now,  O  God,  for  me. 
But  keep  the  boys.     Go  forward  with  them,  God ! 
O  give  our  Highlanders  the  victor\'." 
The  kilts  flashed  on :  "  Well  played,"  he  sighed, 

"  Well  played." 
Just  so  he  prayed. 

W.  M.  Letts. 
The  JVestniiustcr  Gazette. 


i68  WAR  VERSE 


GERMAN  PRISONERS 

When  first  I  saw  you  in  the  curious  street, 
Like  some  platoon  of  soldier  ghosts  in  gray, 
My  mad  impulse  was  all  to  smite  and  slay, 
To  spit  upon  you — tread  you  'neath  my  feet. 
But  when  I  saw  how  each  sad  soul  did  greet 
My  gaze  with  no  sign  of  defiant  frown, 
How  from  tired  eyes  looked  spirits  broken  down, 
How  each  face  showed  the  pale  flag  of  defeat. 
And  doubt,  despair,  and  disillusionment. 
And  how  were  grievous  wounds  on  many  a  head. 
And  on  your  garb  red-faced  was  other  red ; 
And  how  you  stooped  as  men  whose  strength  was  spent, 
I  knew  that  we  had  suffered  each  as  other, 
And  could  have  grasped  your  hand  and  cried,  "  My 
brother !  " 

Sergeant  Joseph  Lee. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  169 


THE  THREE  LADS 

Down  the  road  rides  a  German  lad, 

Into  the  distance  gvciy ; 
Straight  toward  the  north  as  a  bullet  flies, 
The  dusky  north,  with  its  cold,  sad  skies; 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  merry  and  glad. 

For  he's  off  to  the  war  and  away. 
"  Then  hey!  for  our  righteous  king!  "  (he  cries) 
"  And  the  good  old  God  in  his  good  old  skies ! 
And  ho !  for  love  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, — 

For  Fm  off  to  the  war  and  away!  " 

Down  the  road  rides  a  Russian  lad, 

Into  the  distance  gray, 
Out  toward  the  glare  of  the  steppes  he  spurs. 
And  he  hears  the  wolves  in  the  scjuthern  tirs; 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  blithe  and  glad. 

For  he's  off  to  the  war  and  away. 
"  Then  hey  !  for  our  noble  tzar !  "  (he  cries) 
"And  liberty  that  never  dies! 
And  ho !  for  love  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, — 

For  I'm  off  to  the  war  and  away!  " 

Down  the  road  rides  an  English  lad, 

Into  the  distance  gray. 
Through  the  murk  and  fog  of  the  river's  breath, 
Through  the  dank,  dark  night  he  rides  to  his  death; 
But  the  song  that  he  sings  is  gay  and  glad, 

I'or  he's  off  to  the  war  and  away. 
"  Then  hey!  for  our  honest  king!  "  (he  cries) 
"And  lie\- !  for  truth,  and  down  witli  lies! 
And  ho!  for  love  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, — 

For  I'm  off  to  the  war  and  away!  " 

Elizabi;tii  Cuandlkr  Form  an. 
The  Nation. 


lyo  WAR  VERSE 


THE  LONE  WOMAN 

They're  gathering  now  at  yon  crossroads. 

I  hear  the  wail  of  a  viohn. 
Ah,  heart  in  my  breast,  be  keeping  still ! 

The  women  won't  dance  if  I  go  in. 

They're  playing  the  tune  he  used  to  love 
Before  he  went  away  to  the  West. 

They're  playing  the  tune  we  danced  to  best. 
It  goes  to  my  heart  like  my  child's  caress. 

They're  dancing  a  reel  at  yon  crossroads. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  a  violin. 
Ah,  heart  in  my  breast,  be  keeping  still ! 

The  women  won't  dance  if  I  go  in. 

Robert  A.  Christie. 
The  Saturday  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  lyi 


TO  "  HIM  THAT'S  AVVA'  " 

H  I  have  ever  dimmed  with  tears 
The  glory  of  your  high  emprise 
Obscured  with  shadow  ()f  my  fears 
The  \'ision  Splendid  from  your  eyes — 
Forgive  me,  dear. 

li  beneath  outward  show  of  calm 
You  read  my  woman's  anxious  heart, 
Knew  that  soul-deep  I  dreaded  harm. 
In  secret  failed  to  bear  my  part — 
Forget  it,  dear. 

The  brief  disloyalty  has  passed — 
Since  Love  betrayed,  Love  shall  inspire — 
A  flame  has  touched  my  soul  at  last, 
Lit  fr(jm  a  consecrated  fire — 
Your  purpose,  dear. 

Mks.  J.  O.  Arnold. 
The  Bookman. 


172  WAR  VERSE 


THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

"  The  small  steamer  struck  a  mine  yesterday  and 

sank.     The  crew  perished." — Daily  Paper. 

Who  to  the  deep  in  ships  go  down 

Great  marvels  do  behold, 
But  comes  the  day  when  some  must  drown 

In  the  gray  sea  and  cold. 
For  galleons  lost  great  bells  do  toll, 

But  now  must  we  implore 
God's  ear  for  sunken  Little  Ships 

Who  are  not  heard  of  more. 

When  ships  of  war  put  out  to  sea 

They  go  with  guns  and  mail, 
That  so  the  chance  may  equal  be 

Should  foeman  them  assail ; 
But  Little  Ships  men's  errands  run 

And  are  not  clad  for  strife; 
God's  mercy  then  on  Little  Ships 

Who  cannot  fight  for  life. 

To  warm  and  cure,  to  clothe  and  feed 

They  stoutly  put  to  sea, 
And  since  that  men  of  them  had  need 

Made  light  of  jeopardy ; 
Each  in  her  hour  her  fate  did  meet 

Nor  flinched  nor  made  outcry ; 
God's. love  be  with  these  Little  Ships 

Who  could  not  choose  but  die. 

To  friar  and  nun,  and  every  one 

Who  lives  to  save  and  tend, 
Sisters  were  these  whose  work  is  done 

And  comelh  thus  to  end; 


WAR  VERSE  173 

Full  well  they  know  what  risk  they  ran 

P>ut  still  were  strong-  to  jj;-ive ; 
God's  grace  for  all  the  Little  Ships 

Who  died  that  men  might  live. 
Punch. 


174  WAR  VERSE 


L 


THE  CHIVALRY  OF  THE  SEA 


(Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Charles  Fisher,  late  student 
of  Christ  Church,  Oxford.) 

Over  the  warring  waters,  beneath  the  wandering  skies, 
The  heart  of  Britain  roameth,  the  Chivah-y  of  the  sea. 
Where  Spring  never  bringeth  a  flower,  nor  bird  singeth 

in  a  tree ; 
Far,  afar,  O  beloved,  beyond  the  sight  of  our  eyes, 
Over  the  warring  waters,  beneath  the  stormy  skies. 

Staunch  and  valiant-hearted,  to  whom  our  toil  were  play. 
Ye  man  with  armor'd  patience  the  bulwarks  night  and  day. 
Or  on  your  iron  coursers  plough  shuddering  through  the 

Or  'neath  the  deluge  drive  the  skirmishing  sharks  of  war : 
Venturous  boys  who  leapt  on  the  pinnace  and  row'd  from 

shore, 
A  mother's  tear  in  the  eye,  a  swift  farewell  to  say, 
And  a  great  glory  at  heart  that  none  can  take  away. 

Seldom  is  your  home-coming;  for  aye  your  pennon  flies 
In  unrecorded  exploits  on  the  tumultuous  wave ; 
Till,  in  the  storm  of  battle,  fast-thundering  upon  the  foe, 
Ye  add  your  kindred  names  to  the  heroes  of  long  ago, 
And  mid  the  blasting  wrack,  in  the  glad  sudden  death  of 

the  brave. 
Ye  are  gone  to  return  no  more. — Idly  our  tears  arise; 
Too  proud  for  praise  as  ye  lie  in  your  unvisited  grave. 
The  wide-warring  water,  under  the  starry  skies. 

Robert  Bridges. 
The  Times. 


WAR  VERSE  175 


MAGPIES  IN  PICARDY 


The  magpies   in   Picaidy 

Are  more  than  I  can  tell. 

They  flicker  down  the  dusty  roads 

And  cast  a  magic  spell 

On  the  men  who  march  through  Picardy 

Through  Picardy  to  hell. 

(The  blackbird  flies  with  panic, 
The  swallow  goes  like  light, 
The  finches  move  like  ladies, 
The  owl  floats  by  at  night ; 
But  the  great  and  flashing  magpie 
He  flies  as  artists  might.) 

A  magpie  in  Picardy 

Told  me  secret  things — 

Of  the  music  in  white  feathers, 

And  the  sunlight  that  sings 

And  dances  in  deep  shadows — 

He  told  me  with  his  wings. 

(The  hawk  is  cruel  and  rigid, 
He  watches  from  a  height ; 
The  rook  is  slow  and  .sombre, 
The  robin  loves  to  fight ; 
Rut  the  great  and  flashing  magpie 
He  flies  as  lovers  might.) 

He  told  me  that  in  Picardy, 

An  age  ago  or  more. 

While  all  his  fathers  still  were  eggs, 

These  dusty  highways  bf)re 

Brown,  singing  soldiers  marching  out 

Through  Picardy  to  war. 


/ 


176  WAR  VERSE 

He  said  that  still  through  chaos 
Works  on  the  ancient  plan, 
And  two  things  have  altered  not 
Since  first  the  world  began — 
The  beauty  of  the  wild  green  earth 
And  the  bravery  of  man, 

(For  the  sparrow  flies  unthinking 

And  quarrels  in  his  flight. 

The  heron  trails  his  legs  behind, 

The  lark  goes  out  of  sight ; 

But  the  great  and  flashing  magpie 

He  flies  as  poets  might.) 

TiPUCA. 

The  Westminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  177 


WATCHMEN  OF  THE  NIGHT 

Lords  of  the  seas'  great  wilderness 
The  lij:;:ht-gray  warships  cut  the  wind; 

The  headland  dwindles  less  and  less  ; 

The  great  waves,  breaking,  drench  and  blind 

The  stern-faced  watcher  on  the  deck, 

While  England  fades  into  a  speck. 

Afar  on  that  horizon  gray 

The  sleepy  homesteads  one  by  one 

Shine  with  their  cheerful  lights  as  day 
Dies  in  the  valley  and  is  gone, 

While  the  great  moon  comes  o'er  the  hill 

And  floods  the  landscape,  white  and  still. 

But  outward  'mid  the  homeless  waste 

The  battle-fleet  held  on  its  way; 
On  either  side  the  torn  seas  raced, 

Over  the  bridge  blew  up  the  spray ; 
The  ciuartermaster  at  the  wheel 
Steered  through  the  night  his  ship  of  steel. 

Once  from  a  masthead  blinked  a  light — 
The  Admiral  s|)oke  unto  the  I""leet ; 

Swift  answers  flashed  along  the  night. 

The  charthouse  glimmered  through  the  sleet ; 

A  bell  rang  from  the  engine-room, 

And  ere  it  ceased^ — the  great  guns'  boom ! 

Then  thunder  through  the  silence  broke 
And  rolled  along  the  sullen  deep; 

A  hundred  j^uns  flashed  Arc  and  spoke, 
Which  Ijigland  hoard  not  in  her  sleep 

Nor  dreamed  of,  while  her  flghting  sons 

Fed  and  flrcd  the  blazing  guns. 


lyS  WAR  VERSE 

Dawn  broke  in  England,  sweet  and  clear ; 

Birds  in  the  brake,  the  lark  in  heaven 
Made  musical  the  morning  air; 

But  distant,  shattered,  scorched  and  riven, 
Gathered  the  ships — aye,  dawn  was  well 
After  the  night's  red  and  raging  hell. 

But  some  came  not  with  break  of  light, 
Nor  looked  upon  the  saffron  dawn ; 

They  keep  the  watch  of  endless  Night, 
On  the  soft  breast  of  ocean  borne. 

O  waking  England,  rise  and  pray 

For  sons  who  guard  thee  night  and  day ! 

Cecil  Roberts. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  179 


"  FOR  A  SCRAP  OF  PAPER  " 

Why  bursts  the  cloud  in  lliunder,  and  to  devastate  the 

world 
The  levin  bolt  of  battle  from  heaven,  or  hell,  is  hurled? 
Why  march   embattled  millions,  to  death   or  victory 

sworn  ? 
Why  gape  yon  lanes  of  carnage  by  red  artillery  torn  ? 
For  a  scrap  of  paper,  for  a  scrap  of  paper,  nothing 

more ! 

Why  spurned  the  least  of  nations,  but  the  bravest  of 

the  brave. 
The  wages  of  dishonor  and  a  traitor's  peaceful  grave? 
Why  drew  she  sword?  and,  flinging  the  scabbard  far 

away. 
Why  rushed  she  into  battle,  the  foremost  in  the  fray  ? 
For  a  scrap  of  paper,  ior  a  scrap  of  paper,  nothing 

more ! 

When  the  Queen  of  Empires  summoned  her  children  to 

her  shore, 
And  to  set  the  ocean  rolling  she  but  spoke  a  word — no 

more — 
"  Oh,  come  to  me,  my  children,  to  your  mother,  come 

to  me!" 
Why  flocked  the  regiments  trooping  from  the  lands 

beyond  the  sea  ? 
For  a  scrap  of  paper,  for  a  scrap  of  paper,  nothing 

more ! 

Whv  hasted  all  the  i)eoi)lcs  to  confront  the  bandit  crew, 
When  the\   heard  the  tocsin  tolling  and  the  blast  that 
Justice  blew  ? 


i8o  WAR  VERSE 

W  hy  thrilled  they  at  the  summons,  and  answered  one 

and  all, 
By  thousand  thousands  thronging,  to  the   far-blown 

bugle-call  ? 
For  a  scrap  of  paper,  for  a  scrap  of  paper,  nothing 

more ! 

When  the  guns  have  ceased  to  thunder  and  the  battle- 
storm  to  rave, 

When  the  stars  above  are  calling  the  last  muster  of  the 
brave, 

As  they  lie  there  in  their  thousands,  with  their  faces 
to  the  sky. 

We  can  hear  their  voices  answer,  "  We  were  glad  and 
proud  to  die 

For  a  scrap  of  paper,  for  a  scrap  of  paper,  nothing 
more !  " 

Paul  Hyacinth  Loyson. 

(Translated  by  Sir  James  Fraser.) 
The  Fortnightly  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  i8r 


THE  NURSE 

Here  in  the  long  white  ward  I  stand, 
Pausing  a  httle  breathless  space, 

Touching  a  restless  fevered  hand, 
Alurmuriilg  comfort's  commonplace — 

Long  enough  pause  to  feel  the  cold 
Fingers  of  fear  about  my  heart ; 

Just  for  a  moment,  uncontrolled. 
All  the  pent  tears  of  pity  start. 

While  here  I  strive,  as  best  I  mav. 
Strangers'  long  hours  of  pain  t(j  ease, 

Dumbl}-  I  question — Far  oway 
Lies  my  beloved  even  as  these'/ 

Punch. 


i82  WAR  VERSE 


FROM  BOSRAH 

Who  is  this,  in  regal  state,  who  cometh  from  afar, 

His  Tyrian  purple  garments  dyed  to  a  fierce  blood-red, 

His  sword  unsheathed  and  rusted  with  dreadful  stains 
of  war,  ' 

A  crown  of  gold  and  jewels  set  on  his  royal  head? 

Triumphantly  he  passes  o'er  Edom's  tranquil  plain, 
Death  with  his  captives  following  across  the  ruined 
fields, 
Unharvested,  ungarnered,  blood-stained  the  golden  grain. 
Where  war  demands  the  tribute  that  stubborn  valor 
yields. 

Before  him  spreads  in  radiance  the  glory  of  the  world, 
God's  splendid  gift  that  all  men  are  bound  to  hold  in 
trust ; 
Behind  him  grief  and  anguish  'neath  terror's  flag  unfurled, 
Where  flaming  homes  hide  secrets  of  murder,  rapine, 
lust. 

This  is  he,  whose  regal  state  proclaims  him  Lord  of  War, 
Death  following  in  his  footsteps,  close  as  a  new-made 
bride ; 

With  glittering  spear  uplifted  he  cometh  from  afar, 
The  crimson  of  his  raiment  in  blood  of  thousands  dyed. 

9[C  if*  S|C  alC  31^  *|S 

Who  is  this  with  wayworn   feet  and  head  in  anguish 
bowed, 
Blood-drops  upon  His  vesture.  His  forehead  bathed  in 
sweat ; 
Thorn-crowned,  and  gibed  and  jeered  at  amid  a  following 
crowd, 
Who  mock  the  stern  endurance  where  God  and  man 
have  met? 


WAR  VERSE  183 

Here,  strong  to  save,  One  conicth,  speaking  in  righteous- 
ness. 
Who  in   His  blood-stained  garments  alone  the  wine- 
press trod ; 
No  one  stood  by  to  answer  the  cry  of  His  distress 

When  in  His  love  and  pity  He  faced  the  wrath  of  God. 

This  is  He,  the  Lord  of  Peace,  with  travel-weary  feet, 
In  crown  of  thorns,  and  stained  with  blood,  who  cometh 
from  afar ; 
He  who,  upon  the  reckoning  day  w^hen  God  and  man 
shall  meet, 
Shall  show  Himself  a  conqueror,  triumphant  over  war. 

Beatrice  Allhusen. 
Chambers'.'!  Journal. 


i84  WAR  VERSE 


TO  A  SOLDIER  IN  HOSPITAL 

Courage  came  to  you  with  your  boyhood's  grace 

Of  ardent  hfe  and  Hmb. 
Each  day  new  dangers  steeled  you  to  the  test, 

To  ride,  to  climb,  to  swim. 
Your  hot  blood  taught  you  carelessness  of  death 
With  every  breath. 

So  when  you  went  to  play  another  game 

You  could  not  but  be  brave : 
An  Empire's  team,  a  rougher  football  field. 

The  end — perhaps  your  grave. 
What  matter?     On  the  winning  of  a  goal 
You  staked  your  soul. 

Yes,  you  wore  courage  as  you  wore  your  youth 

With  carelessness  and  joy. 
But  in  what  Spartan  school  of  discipline 

Did  you  get  patience,  boy? 
How  did  you  learn  to  bear  this  long-drawn  pain 
And  not  complain? 

Restless  with  throbbing  hopes,  with  thwarted  aims, 

Impulsive  as  a  colt. 
How  do  you  lie  here  month  by  weary  month 

Helpless  and  not  revolt? 
What  joy  can  these  monotonous  days  afford 
Here  in  a  ward? 

Yet  you  are  merry  as  the  birds  in  spring. 

Or  feign  the  gayety. 
Lest  those  who  dress  and  tend  your  wound  each  day 

Should  guess  the  agony. 
Lest  they  should  suffer — this  the  only  fear 
You  let  draw  near. 


WAR  VERSE  i8s 

Gniyheard  philosophy  has  soujilit  in  hooks 

And  ai\<,niniciU  this  liulh, 
Ihat  man  is  greater  than  his  pain,  hnt  y(ni 

Have  learnt  it  in  your  youth. 
You  know  tlie  wisdom  taught  l)y  Calvary 
At  twenty-three. 

Death  would  have  found  you  brave,  but  braver  slill 

You  face  each  lagging  day, 
A  merry  Stoic,  patient,  chivalrous, 

Divinely  kind  and  gay. 
You  bear  your  knowledge  lightly,  graduate 
Of  unkind  Fate. 

Careless  philoso[)her,  the  hrsl  to  laugh, 

The  latest  to  complain, 
L'nmindlul  that  \ou  teach,  you  taught  me  this 

In  your  long  hght  with  jiain  : 
Since  t iod  made  man  so  good — here  stands  m\"  creed — 
(lod's  good  indeed. 

W.  M.  LliTTS. 

The  Spectator. 


i86  WAR  VERSE 


"  OUR  ANNUAL  " 

Up  the  well-remembered  fairway,  past  the  buoys  and 
forts  we  drifted — 
Saw  the  houses,  roads  and  churches,  as  they  were  a 
year  ago. 
Far  astern  were  wars  and  battles,  all  the  dreary  clouds 
were  lifted, 
As  we  turned  the  Elbow  Ledges — felt  the  engines  ease 
to  "  Slow." 

Rusty  side  and  dingy  paintwork,  stripped  for  war  and 
cleared  for  battle — 
Saw   the  harbor-tugs   around  us — smelt   the   English 
fields  again, — 
English   fields   and  English   hedges — sheep   and  horses, 
English  cattle. 
Like  a  screen  unrolled  before  us,  through  the  mist  of 
English  rain. 

Slowly   through    the   basin   entrance — twenty    thousand 
tons  a-crawling 
With  a  thousand  men  aboard  her,  all  a- weary  of  the 
War- 
Warped  her  round  and  laid  alongside  with  the  cobble- 
stones a-calling— 
"  There's  a  special  train  awaiting,  just  for  you  to  come 
ashore." 

Out  again  as  fell  the  evening,  down  the  harbor  in  the 
gloaming 
With  the  sailors  on  the  fo'c's'le  looking  wistfully  a-lee — 
Just    another    year    of    waiting — just    another    year    of 
roaming 
For  the  Majesty  of  England — for  the  Freedom  of  the 
Sea. 

Klaxon. 
Blackwood's  Mayadne. 


WAR  VERSE  18: 


THE  PASSING-RELL 

That  was  the  Passing-bell. 

For  whom?     For  one  who  died 
That  Ens^land  might  fare  well. 
One  of  that  hero-host  innumerable, 
A  Nation's  pride. 

But  England  never  dies, 

Through  such  she  lives  and  rears 
Her  standard  of  lunprise, 
High  faith,  free  hope,  and  all  that  purifies 
The  stain  of  years. 

It  tolls  not ;  it  is  glad, 

Glad  with  a  solemn  spell. 
Can  England's  heart  be  sad 
Ennobled  by  the  noblest  sons  she  had? 
It  is  no  Passing-bell. 

Walti:k  Siciikl. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


i88  WAR  VERSE 


"  POOR  OLD  SHIP !  " 

She  wasn't  much  to  brag  about,  she  wasn't  much  to  see, 
A  rusty  crusty  hooker  as  a  merchant  ship  could  be ; 
They  sunk  her  off   the   Longships   Light   as  night   was 

coming  on, 
And  we  had  to  go  and  leave  her  there  and,  poor  old  ship, 

she's  gone. 
All  that  was  good  of  her,  all  that  was  bad  of  her, 
All  that  we  gave  to  her,  all  that  we  had  of  her. 
Poor  old  ship,  she's  gone ! 

The  times  we  spent  aboard  her,  they  was  oftener  bad 

than  good, 
But  bad  or  good,  we'd  live  the  lot  all  over  if  we  could; 
She's  stood  her  trick  as  well  as  us,  she's  had  her  whack 

of  fun. 
She's  shared  it  all  with  sailormen,  and  poor  old  ship,  she's 

done. 
Hard  times  and  soft  times  and  all  times  we've  been  with 

her. 
Bad  days  and  good  days  and  all  sorts  we've  seen  with  her, 
And,  poor  old  ship,  she's  done ! 

She's  stuck  her  crazy  derricks  upi  by  half  a  hundred  quays. 
She's  dipped  her  dingy  duster  in  the  spray  of  all  the  seas ; 
Her  funnel's  caked  with  Cape  Horn  ice  and  blistered  in 

the  sun, 
She's  moseyed  round  above  a  bit,  and,  poor  old  ship,  she's 

done. 
North  seas  and  south,  and  they've  all  had  a  go  at  her, 
Hot  winds  and  cold,  and  they've  all  had  a  blow  at  her, 
And,  poor  old  ship,  she's  done ! 

She's  trailed  her  smudge  the  whole  world  round  in 
weather  gray  and  blue, 

She's  churned  a  dozen  oceans  with  her  blooming  nine- 
knot  screw ; 


WAR  VERSE  189 

She's  sampled  all  the  harbor  nuid  from  Cardiff  to  Canton, 
And  she'll  never  clear  another  port,  for,  poor  old  ship, 

she's  ,<;one. 
I'orls  up  and  dow  n,  and  she's  seen  many  a  score  of  'em  ; 
Seas  high  and  low,  and  she  won't  sail  no  more  of  'em. 
For,  poor  old  ship,  she's  gone ! 

And  chaps  that  knowed  her  in  their  time,  'tween  London 

and  Rangoon, 
In  many  a  sailor's  drinking-place  and  water-front  saloon, 
Will  set  their  drinks  down  when  they  hear  her  blooming 

)arn  is  s[)un, 
And  say,  "  I  sailed  aboard  her  once,  and,  poor  old  ship, 

she's  done. 
Many's  the  hard  word  I  once  used  to  spend  on  her, 
Ah,  them  was  great  days,  and  now  there's  an  end  on  her. 
Poor  old  ship,  she's  done  !  " 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
Punch. 


J90  WAR  VERSE 


RED  POPPIES  IN  THE  CORN 

I've  seen  them  in  the  morning  Hght, 

When  white  mists  drifted  by: 
I've  seen  them  in  the  dusk  o'  night 

Glow  'gainst  the  starry  sky. 
The  slender  waving  blossoms  red, 

Mid  yellow  fields  forlorn : 
A  glory  on  the  scene  they  shed, 

Red  Poppies  in  the  Corn. 

I've  seen  them,  too,  those  blossoms  red, 

Show  'gainst  the  Trench  lines'  screen, 
A  crimson  stream  that  waved  and  spread 

Thro'  all  the  brown  and  green : 
I've  seen  them  dyed  a  deeper  hue 

Than  ever  nature  gave. 
Shell-torn  from  slopes  on  which  they  grew, 

To  cover  many  a  grave. 

Bright  blossoms  fair  by  nature  set 

Along  the  dusty  ways. 
You  cheered  us,  in  the  battle's  fret, 

Thro'  long  and  weary  days: 
You  gave  us  hope :  if  fate  be  kind, 

We'll  see  that  longed-for  morn, 
When  home  again  we  march  and  find 

Red  Poppies  in  the  Corn. 

W.  Campbell  Galbraith,  C.  M.  G. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


WAR  VERSE  191 


KITCHENER'S  MARCH 

Not  the  niufiled  drums  for  him 
Nor  the  wailing  of  the  fife — 
Trumpets  blaring  to  the  charge 
Were  the  music  of  his  life. 
Let  the  music  of  his  death 
Be  the  feet  of  marching  men, 
Let  his  heart  a  thousandfold 
Take  the  field  again. 

Of  his  patience,  of  his  calm, 
Of  his  quiet  faithfulness, 
England,  build  your  hero's  cairn! 
He  was  worthy  of  no  less. 
Stone  by  stone,  in  silence  laid. 
Singly,  surely,  let  it  grow^ 
He  whose  living  was  to  serve 
Would  have  had  it  so. 

There's  a  body  drifting  down 
For  the  might\-  sea  to  keep. 
There's  a  sjjirit  cannot  die 
While  one  heart  is  left  to  leap. 
In  the  land  he  gave  his  all, 
Steel  alike  to  [)raise  and  hate. 
He  has  saved  the  life  he  spent — 
Death  has  struck  too  late. 

Not  the  muffled  drums  for  him 
Nor  the  wailing  of  the  life — 
Trumpets  blaring  to  the  charge 
Were  the  music  of  his  life. 
Let  the  music  of  his  death 
Be  the  feet  of  marching  men! 
Let  his  heart  a  thousandfold 
Take  the  field  again ! 


The  Bookman. 


A.  I.  B. 


192  WAR  VERSE 


THE  ARMED  LINER 

The  dull  gray  paint  of  war 

Covering  the  shining  brass  and  gleaming  decks 

That  once  reechoed  to  the  steps  of  youth. 

That  was  before 

The  storms  of  destiny  made  ghastly  wrecks 

Of  Peace,  the  Right  and  Truth, 

Impromptu  dances,  colored  lights  and  laughter, 

Lovers  watching  the  phosphorescent  waves, 

Now  gaping  guns,  a  whistling  shell ;  and  after 

So  many  wandering  graves. 

H.  Smalley  Sarson. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  193 


PRO  PATRIA 

ICnj^land,  in  this  great  fight  to  which  you  go 

liecause,  where  Honor  calls  you,  go  you  must, 
lie  glad,  whatever  comes,  at  least  to  know 
You  have  your  quarrel  just. 

Peace  was  your  care ;  before  the  nations'  bar 

Her  cause  you  pleaded  and  her  ends  you  sought ; 
But  not  for  her  sake,  being  what  you  are, 
Could  you  be  bribed  and  bought. 

Others  may  spurn  the  pledge  of  land  to  land. 

May  with  the  brute  sword  stain  a  gallant  past; 
But  by  the  seal  to  which  yoii  set  your  hand, 
Thank  God,  you  still  stand  fast! 

Forth,  then,  to   front  that  peril  of  the  deep 

\\  ith  smiling  lips  and  in  your  eyes  the  light, 
Steadfast  and  confident,  of  those  who  keep 
Their  storied  scutcheon  bright. 

And  we,  whose  burden  is  to  watch  and  wait — 

High-hearted  ever,  strong  in  faith  and  prayer, 
\\  e  ask  what  offering  we  may  consecrate. 
What  humble  service  share? 

To  steel  our  souls  against  the  lust  of  ease; 
To  find  our  welfare  in  the  general  good; 
To  hold  trjgethcr,  merging  all  degrees 
In  one  wide  brotherhood; — 

To  teach  that  he  who  saves  himself  is  lost; 

To  bear  in  silence  though  our  hearts  may  bleed; 
To  spend  ourselves,  and  never  count  the  cost, 
For  others'  greater  need; — 


194  WAR  VERSE 

To  go  our  quiet  ways,  subdued  and  sane ; 

To  hush  all  vulgar  clamor  of  the  street; 
With  level  calm  to  face  alike  the  strain 
Of  triumph  or  defeat ; — 

This  be  our  part,  for  so  we  serve  you  best, 

So  best  confirm  their  prowess  and  their  pride. 
Your  warrior  sons,  to  whom  in  this  high  test 
Our  fortunes  we  confide. 

Owen  Seaman. 
Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  195 


THE  QUARTERMASTER 

I  mustn't  look  up   from  the  compass-card,  nor  look  at 

the  seas  at  all, 
I  must  watch  the  helm  and  compass-card — If  I  heard  the 

trumpet-call 
Of   Gabriel    sounding   Judgment    Day    to   dry    the    Seas 

again,— 
I  must  hold  her  bow  to  windward  now  till  I'm  relieved 

again — 
To  the  pipe  and  wail  of  a  tearing  gale, 
Carrying  Starboard  Ten. 


I  must  stare  and  frown  at  the  compass-card,  that  chases 

round  the  bowl. 
North  and  South  and  back  again  with  every  lurching 

roll. 
r>y  the  feel  of  the  ship  beneath  I  know  the  way  she's 

going  to  swing, 
r.ut  I  mustn't  look  up  to  the  booming  wind  however  the 

halliards  sing — 
In  a  breaking  sea  with  the  land  a-lee, 
Carrying  Starboard  Ten. 


And  I  stoop  to  look  at  the  compass-card  as  closes  in  the 

night, 
Iu)r  it's  hard  to  see  bv  the  shaded  glow  of  half  a  candle 

light, 
Ikit  the  spokes  are  bright,  and  I  note  beside  in  the  corner 

of  my  eye 
A  shimnTcr  (>{  light  on  oilskin  wet  that  shows  the  Owner 

nigh- 
Foggy  and  thick  and  a  wind)-  liick, 
Carrying  .Starboard  Ten. 


196  WAR  VERSE 

Heave  and   sway   or   dive   and   roll    can   never   disturb 

me  now ; 
Though  seas  may  sweep  in  rivers  of  foam  across  the 

straining  bow, 
I've  got  my  eyes  on  the  compass-card,  and  though  she 

broke  her  keel 
And  hit  the  bottom  beneath  us  now,  you'd  find  me  at 
the  wheel 
In  Davy's  realm,  still  at  the  helm. 
Carrying  Starboard  Ten. 

Klaxon. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  197 


SPORTSMEN  IN  PARADISE 

They  left  the  fury  of  the  fi^ht, 

And  they  were  very  tired. 
The  spates  of  Heaven  were  open  quite, 

Unguarded  and  un wired. 
There  was  no  sound  of  any  gun, 

The  land  was  still  and  green; 
Wide  hills  lay  silent  in  the  sun, 

Blue  valleys  slept  between. 

They  saw  far  oft"  a  little  wood 

Stand  up  against  the  sky. 
Knee-deep  in  grass  a  great  tree  stood.     .     .     . 

Some  lazy  cows  went  by     .     .     . 
There  were  some  rooks  sailed  overhead. 

And  once  a  church-bell  pealed. 
"  God!  hut  it's  England,"  some  one  said, 

"And  there's  a  cricket-field!  " 

TiPUCA. 

The  Westminster  Gazette. 


198  WAR  VERSE 


CROCUSES  AT  NOTTINGHAM 
{From  a  Trench) 

Out  here  the  dogs  of  war  run  loose, 

Their  whipper-in  is  Death  ; 
Across  the  spoilt  and  battered  fields 

We  hear  their  sobbing  breath. 
The  fields  where  grew  the  living  corn 

Are  heavy  with  our  dead; 
Yet  still  the  fields  at  home  are  green 

And  I  have  heard  it  said : 

That— 
There  are  crocuses  at  Nottingham ! 
Wild  crocuses  at  Nottingham  ! 
Blue  crocuses  at  Nottingham ! 
Though  here  the  grass  is  red. 

There  are  little  girls  at  Nottingham 

Who  do  not  dread  the  Boche, 
Young  girls  at  school  at  Nottingham 

(Lord!  how  I  need  a  wash!). 
There  are  little  boys  at  Nottingham 

Who  never  hear  a  gun ; 
There  are  silly  fools  at  Nottingham 

Who  think  we're  here  for  fun. 

When— 
There  are  crocuses  at  Nottingham ! 
Young  crocus  buds  at  Nottingham ! 
Thousands  of  buds  at  Nottingham 
Ungathered  by  the  Hun. 

But  here  we  trample  down  the  grass 

Into  a  purple  slime; 
There  lives  no  tree  to  give  the  birds 

House  i^oom  in  pairing-time. 


WAR  X'ERSE  199 

We  live  in  holes,  like  cellar  rats, 

But  through  the  noise  and  smell 
I  often  see  those  crocuses 

Of  which  the  people  tell. 

Why ! 
There  are  crocuses  at  Nottingham! 
liright  crocuses  at  Nottingham  ! 
Real  crocuses  at  Nottingham! 
Because  we're  here  in  Hell. 


Tlw  Thiics. 


200  WAR  VERSE 


IN  ENGLAND 

To-day  the  lonely  winds  are  loose. 

And  crying  goes  the  rain, 

And  here  we  walk  the  fields  they  knew, 

The  Dead  who  died  in  pain. 

The  fields  that  wait  the  slow  hours  long 

For  sounds  that  shall  not  come — 

In  other  fields,  in  other  earth 

The  laughing  hearts  lie  dumb. 

And— 
There  are  silent  homes  in  England,  now, 
And  wakeful  eyes  in  England,  now, 
And  tired  hearts  in  England,  now, 
Unhailed  by  fife  or  drum. 

There  are  crocuses  at  Nottingham 

And  jonquils  in  the  South, 

And  any  Dorset  child  may  press 

A  snowdrop  to  her  mouth. 

The  broken  flesh  that  Flanders  keeps. 

It,  too,  may  have  its  flowers. 

But  are  they  haunted,  memory-sad 

As  these  new  buds  of  ours  ? 

For — 
There  are  ghosts  abroad  in  England,  now, 
And  crying  winds  in  England,  now. 
And  none  forget  in  England,  now. 
The  wasted  lives  and  powers. 

Here,  we  who  cannot  even  die 

Live  out  our  emptied  days — 

The  maimed,  the  blind,  the  witless,  throng 

Our  unassaulted  ways. 


•     WAR  \ERSE  20I 

Around  our  lives,  ihe  broken  lives 

Like  worthless  toys  downthrown, 

And  they  were  dropped  in  Hell,  whilst  here 

The  early  liowers  had  blown, 

Rut— 
Our  hearts  are  pierced  in  llnijland,  now, 
And  none  forget  in  Kngland,  now, 
That  redder  seed  than  England's  now 
In  Flanders  earth  is  sown ! 

May  O'Rourke. 
The  Times. 


202  WAR  VERSE 


'  WHOSE  DEBTORS  WE  ARE  " 

They  held,  against  the  storms  of  fate, 

In  war's  tremendous  game, 
A  little  land  inviolate 

Within  a  world  aflame. 

They  looked  on  scarred  and  ruined  lands, 
On  shell-wrecked  fields  forlorn, 

And  gave  to  us,  with  open  hands, 
Full  fields  of  yellow  corn ; 

The  silence  wrought  in  wood  and  stone, 
Whose  aisles  our  fathers  trod ; 

The  pines  that  stand  apart,  alone, 
Like  sentinels  of  God ; 

The  stars  that  guard  the  quiet  night, 

Pin-pricked  against  the  blue ; 
The  wind-swept  dawn  whose  tranquil  light 

Is  mirrored  in  the  dew. 

With  generous  hands  they  paid  the  price 

Unconscious  of  the  cost, 
But  we  must  gauge  the  sacrifice 

By  all  that  they  have  lost. 

The  joy  of  young  adventurous  ways, 
Of  keen  and  undimmed  sight, 

The  eager  tramp  through  sunny  days, 
The  dreamless  sleep  of  night, 

The  happy  hours  that  come  and  go 

In  youth's  untiring  quest, 
They  gave,  because  they  willed  it  so, 

With  some  light-hearted  jest. 


WAR  \'ERSE  203 


No  lavish  love  of  future  years. 
No  passionate  regret, 

No  gift  of  sacrifice  or  tears 
Can  ever  pay  the  debt. 

runch. 


204  WAR  VERSE 


THE  GREAT  GUNS  OF  ENGLAND 

The  great  guns  of  England,  they  listen  mile  on  mile 
To  the  boasts  of  a  broken  War- Lord;  they  lift  theii 
throats  and  smile; 

But  the  old  woods  are  fallen 
For  a  while. 

The  old  woods  are  fallen ;  yet  will  they  come  again, 
They  will  come  back  some  springtime  with  the  warm 
winds  and  the  rain, 

For  Nature  guardeth  her  children 
Never  in  vain. 

They  M'ill  come  back  some  season ;  it  may  be  a  hundred 

years ; 
It  is  all  one  to  Nature  with  the  centuries  that  are  hers ; 
She  shall  bring  back  her  children 
And  dry  all  their  tears. 

But  the  tears  of  a  would-be  War-Lord  shall  never  cease 

to  flow. 
He  shall  weep  for  the  poisoned  armies  whenever  the  gas- 
winds  blow, 

He  shall  always  weep  for  his  widows, 
And  all  Hell  shall  know. 

The  tears  of  a  pitiless  Kaiser  shallow  they'll  flow  and 

wide. 
Wide  as  the  desolation  made  by  his  silly  pride 
When  he  slaughtered  a  little  people 
To  stab  France  in  her  side. 

Over  the  ragged  cinders  they  shall  flow  on  and  on 
With  the  listless  falling  of  streams  that  find  not  Oblivion, 
For  ages  and  ages  of  years 
Till  the  last  star  is  gone. 

Lord  Dunsany. 
The  Saturday  Reviezv. 


WAR  VERSE  205 


r.UT  A  SHORT  TIME  TO  LIVE 

Our  little  hour — how  swift  it  flies 
When  poppies  llare  and  lilies  smile ; 

How  soon  the  fleeting^  minute  dies, 
Leaving  us  but  a  little  while 

To  dream  our  dream,  to  sing  our  song, 
To  pick  the  fruit,  to  pluck  the  flower, 

The  Gods — They  do  not  give  us  long — 
One  little  hour. 

Our  little  hour — how  short  it  is 

When  Love  with  dew-eyed  loveliness 

Raises  her  lips  for  ours  to  kiss 
And  dies  within  our  first  caress. 

Youth  flickers  out  like  windblown  flame, 
Sweets  of  to-day  to-morrow  s(jur, 

For  Time  and  Death,  relentless,  claim 
One  little  hour. 

Our  little  hour — how  short  a  time 
To  wage  our  wars,  to  fan  our  fates, 

To  take  our  fill  of  armored  crime, 
To  troop  our  banner,  storm  the  gates. 

Blood  on  the  sword,  our  eyes  blood-red, 
Blind  in  our  puny  reign  of  power. 

Do  we  forget  how  soon  is  sped 
One  little  hour. 

Our  little  hour — how  soon  it  dies; 

How  short  a  time  to  tell  our  beads, 
To  chant  our  feeble  Litanies, 

To  think  sweet  thoughts,  to  do  gf)od  deeds. 
The  altar  lights  grow  pale  and  dim, 

The  bells  hang  silent  in  the  tower — 
So  passes  with  the  dying  hymn 
Our  little  hour. 

Lkslil  Cotn.soN. 


2o6  WAR  VERSE 


MARE  LIBERUM 

You  dare  to  say  with  per  juiced  lips, 
"  We  fight  to  make  the  ocean  free  "? 

You,  whose  black  trail  of  butchered  ships 
Bestrews  the  bed  of  every  sea 
Where  German  submarines  have  wrought 
Their  horrors  !     Have  you  never  thought, — 

What  you  call  freedom,  men  call  piracy  ! 

Unnumbered  ghosts  that  haunt  the  wave 
Where  you  have  murdered,  cry  you  down ; 

And  seamen  whom  you  would  not  save. 
Weave  now  in  weed-grown  depths  a  crown 
Of  shame  for  your  imperious  head, — 
A  dark  memorial  of  the  dead, — 

Women  and  children  whom  you  left  to  drown. 

Nay,  not  till  thieves  are  set  to  guard 
The  gold,  and  corsairs  called  to  keep 

O'er  peaceful  commerce  watch  and  ward, 
And  wolves  to  herd  the  helpless  sheep, 
Shall  men  and  women  look  to  thee, — 
Thou  ruthless  Old  Man  of  the  Sea, — 

To  safeguard  law  and  freedom  on  the  deep ! 

In  nobler  breeds  we  put  our  trust : 
The  nations  in  whose  sacred  lore 

The  "  Ought  "  stands  out  above  the  "  Must," 
And  Honor  rules  in  peace  and  war. 
With  these  we  hold  in  soul  and  heart, 
With  these  we  choose  our  lot  and  part, 

Till  Liberty  is  safe  on  sea  and  shore. 

Henry  Van  Dyke. 
U.  S.  Minister  at  The  Hague,  igi^-i6. 


WAR  VERSE  20: 


THE  PATROL 

Fire  men  over  the  parapet,  ti-itli  a  one-star  loot  in 
eharge, 

Stumbling  along  through  the  litter  and  muck  and  curs- 
ing blind  and  large, 

Hooking  their  gear  in  the  clutching  zcire  as  they  zvriggle 
through  the  gap, 

for  an  hour's  patrol  in  No  Man's  Land,  and  take  zvhat 
chance  may  hap. 

Over  the  sodden  parapet  and  through  the  rusty  wire, 
Out  of  touch  with  all  good  things,  fellowship,  light,  and 

fire; 
Every  clattering  bully-tin  a  Jwdas  as  we  pass, 
At  every  star-shell,  face  to  earth  upon  the  sodden  grass. 

From  Misery  Farm  to  Seven  Trees  it's  safe  enough 

to  go. 
r.ut    it's   belly-crawl    down   Dead   Man's   Ditch,   half 

choked  with  grimy  snow. 
Then  back  beside  the  grass-grown  road — Watch  out ! 

They've  got  it  set ! 
To  where  B  Company's  listening  post  lies  shivering 

in  the  wet. 

All  the  dark's  a  mystery,  and  every  breath's  a  threat — 
I've  forgotten  many  a  thing,  but  this  I  sha'n'l  forget, 
A  crawl  by  night  in  No  Man's  Land,  with  never  a  sight 

or  sound, 
Except  the  flares  and  the  rifle-flash  and  the  blind  death 

whimpering  round. 

And  T  have  failed  at  many  a  task,  but  this  one  thing 

I've  learned : 
It's  little  things  make  Paradise — like  three  hours'  doss 

well  earned, 


2o8  WAR  VERSE 

A  fire  of  coke  in  a  battered  pail,  and  a  gulp  of  ration 

rum, 
Or  a  gobbled  meal  of  bully  and  mud,  with  the  guns  for 

a  moment  dumb. 

And  horror's  not  from  the  terrible  things — men  torn  to 

rags  by  a  shell. 
And  the  whole  trench  swimming  in  blood  and  slush, 

like  a  butcher's  shop  in  hell ; 
It's  silence  and  night  and  the  smell  of  the  dead  that 

shake  a  man  to  the  soul, 
From  Misery  Farm  to  Dead  Man's  Ditch  on  a  "  Nil 

report "  patrol. 

Five  men  back  to  the  trench  again,  with  a  one-star  loot 

in  charge, 
Stumbling  over  tJie  rusty  tins  and  cursing  blind  and 

large. 
Enter  the  trench-log  up  to  date  by  a  guttering  candle's    % 

flare! 
"  No  report "  (save  that  hell  is  dark,  and  we  have  just 

been  there). 

J.  H.  Knight-Adkin, 
Capt.  Glosters. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  209 


SUBALTERNS 
{A  Song  of  Oxford) 

They  had  so  much  to  lose;  their  radiant  laughter 
Shook  my  old  walls — how  short  a  time  ago. 

I  hold  the  echoes  of  their  song  hereafter 
Among  the  precious  things  I  used  to  know. 

Their  cup  of  life  was  full  to  overflowing, 
All  earth  had  laid  its  tribute  at  their  feet. 

What  harvest  might  we  hope  from  such  a  sowing? 
What  noonday  from  a  dawning  so  complete ? 

And  I — I  watched  them  working,  dreaming,  playing, 
Saw  their  young  bodies  fit  the  mind's  desire, 

Felt  them  reach  outward,  upward,  still  obeying 
The  passionate  dictates  of  their  hidden  tire. 

Yet  here  and  there  some  graybeard  breathed  derision, 
"  Too  much  of  luxury,  too  soft  an  age ! 

Your  careless  Galahads  will  see  no  vision, 

Your  knights  will  make  no  mark  on  honor's  page." 

No  mark? — Go  ask  the  broken  fields  in  Flanders, 
Ask  the  great  dead  who  watched  in  ancient   Iroy, 

.\sk  the  ()\d  moon  as  round  the  world  she  wanders 
What  of  the  men  who  were  my  hope  and  joy ! 

They  are  but  fragments  of  Imperial  sjjlcndor, 
Ilandfuls  of  might  amid  a  mighty  host, 

Yet  I,  who  saw  them  go  with  proud  surrender. 
May  surely  claim  to  love  them  first  and  most. 


210  WAR  VERSE 

Thf^y  who  h?d  all,  gave  all.     Their  half-writ  story 
Lies  in  the  empty  halls  they  knew  so  well, 

But  they,  the  knights  of  God,  shall  see  His  glory, 
And  find  the  Grail  ev'n  in  the  fire  of  hell. 

Mildred  Huxley. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  2U 


PARIS  AGAIN 

Big  blue  overcoat  and  breeches  red  as  red, 
And  a  queer  quaint  kepi  at  an  angle  on  his  head ; 
And  he  sang  as  he  was  marching,  and  in  the  Tuilleries 
You  could  meet  him  en  permission  with  Margot  on  his 

knee. 
At  the  little  cafe  tables  by  the  dusty  palms  in  tubs, 
In  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg,  among  the  scented 

shrubs, 
On  the  old  IjOuI.  Mich,  of  student  days,  you  saw  his 

red  and  blue ; 
Did  you  come  to  love  the  fantassin,  le  p'tit  piou-piou? 

He  has  gone,  gone,  vanished,  like  a  dream  of  yester- 
night ; 
He  is  out  among  the  hedges  where  the  shrapnel  smoke 

is  white ; 
And  some  of  him  are  singing  still  and  some  of  him  are 

dead. 
And  blood  and  mud  and  sweat  and  smoke  have  stained 

his  blue  and  red. 
He  is  out  among  the  hedges  and  the  ditches  in  the  rain, 
I'.ut,  when  the  soixante-qiiinces  are  hushed,  just  hark  ! — 

the  old  refrain, 
"  .S'l   tit  7-eux  fairc  man   honheur,   Martjucrite,   O   Mar- 

f/uerlte," 
Ringing  clear  above  the  rifles  and  the  trampling  of  the 

feet. 

Ah,  mav  le  hnn  Dieii  send  him  back  again  in  blue  and 

red. 
With  his  (|ucer,  (|uaint  kepi  at  an  angle  on  bi^  head. 


212  WAR  VERSE 

So  the  Seine  shall  laugh  again  beneath  the  sunlight's 

quick  caress ; 
So  the  Meudon  woods  shall  echo  once  again  to  "  La 

Jeunesse." 
And  all  along  the  Luxembourg  and  in  the  Tuilleries, 
We  shall  meet  him  en  permission  with  Margot  on  his 

knee. 

Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  213 


THE  BIRDS  FLIT  UNAFRAID 

The  birds  flit  unafraid 

Through  your  great  cannonade ; 

And,  O  Cannoniers,  though  ill 

The  forests  take  your  skill 

And  as  by  winter  nipp'd 

Scatter  leaves  buUet-stript 

Down  the  shell-ravaged  road — 

Still,  in  its  dark  abode, 

In  the  branches  of  God, 

The  Soul  sings  on  alone ; 

You  may  blow  the  dead  from  their  crypt, 

Not  the  dream  from  its  throne! 

Herbert  Trench. 
The  IVestminster  Gazette. 


214  WAR  VERSE 


PROCESSIONAL 

Shall  Christ  not  have  His  chosen  men 
Nor  lead  His  crested  knights  so  tall, 

Superb  upon  their  horses  when 
The  world's  last  cities  fall  ? 

Ah,  no  !     These  few,  the  maimed,  the  dumb, 

The  saints  of  every  lazar's  den, 
The  earth's  offscourings — they  come 

From  desert  and  from  fen 

To  break  the  terror  of  the  night. 

Black  drearns  and  dreadful  mysteries, 

And  proud  lost  empires  in  their  might. 
And  chains  and  tyrannies.     .     .     . 

See  how  the  plated  gates  unfold, 

How  swing  the  creaking  doors  of  brass ! 

Victorious  in  defeat— behold, 
Christ  and  His  cohorts  pass ! 

Theodore  Maynard. 


WAR  VERSE  215 


GOD'S  HILLS 

In  our  hill-country  of  the  North, 

The  rainy  skies  are  soft  and  gray, 
And  rank  on  rank  the  clouds  go  forth, 

And  rain  in  orderly  array 
Treads  the  mysterious  flanks  of  hills 

That  stood  before  our  race  began, 
And  still  shall  stand  w  hen  Sorrow  spills 

Her  last  tear  on  the  dust  of  man. 

There  shall  the  mists  in  beauty  break 

And  clinging  tendrils  hnely  drawn, 
A  rose  and  silver  glory  make 

About  the  silent  feet  of  dawn ; 
Till  enable  clears  his  iron  sides 

And  Bowfell's  wrinkled  front  appears, 
And  Scawfell's  clustered  might  derides 

The  menace  of  the  marching  years. 

The  tall  men  of  that  noble  land 

Who  share  such  high  companionship, 
Are  scorners  of  the  feeble  hand, 

Contemners  of  the  faltering  lip. 
When  all  the  ancient  truths  de])art, 

In  every  strait  that  men  confess. 
Stands  in  the  stubborn  Cumbrian  heart 

The  spirit  of  that  steadfastness. 

In  quiet  valleys  of  the  hills 

The  humble  gray  stone  crosses  lie, 
And  all  day  long  the  curlew  shrills 

And  all  day  long  the  wind  goes  by. 
But  on  some  stifling  alien  ])lain 

The  flesh  of  Cumbrian  men  is  thrust 
In  shallow  pits,  rind  cries  in  vain 

'Co  mingle  with  its  kindred  dust. 


2i6  WAR  VERSE 

Yet  those  make  death  a  little  thing 

Who  know  the  settled  works  of  God, 
Winds  that  heard  Latin  watchwords  ring 

From  ramparts  where  the  Roman  trod. 
Stars  that  beheld  the  last  King's  crown 

Flash  in  the  steel-gray  mountain  tarn, 
And  ghylls  that  cut  the  live  rock  down 

Before  Kings  ruled  in  Ispahan. 

And  when  the  sun  at  even  dips 

And  Sabbath  bells  are  sad  and  sweet. 
When  some  wan  Cumbrian  mother's  lips 

Pray  for  the  son  they  shall  not  greet, 
As  falls  that  sudden  dew  of  grace 

Which  makes  for  her  the  riddle  plain. 
The  South  wind  blows  to  our  own  place, 

And  we  shall  see  the  hills  again. 

Edward  Melbourne. 
The  New  Witness. 


WAR  VERSE  217 


THE  INN  O'  THE  SWORD 
(^■i  Sony  of  Youth  and  War) 

Roving  along  the  King's  highway 

I  met  \vi'  a  Romany  black. 
"  Good  day,"  says  I ;  says  he,  "  Good  day, 

And  what  may  you  have  in  your  pack?  " 
"  Why,  a  shirt,"  says  I,  "  and  a  song  or  two 

To  make  the  road  go  faster." 
He  kuighed :  "  Ye'll  find  or  the  day  be  through 

There's  more  nor  that,  young  master. 
Oh,  roving's  good  and  youth  is  sweet 

And  love  is  its  own  reward; 
But  there's  that  shall  stay  your  careless  feet 

When  ye  come  to  the  Sign  o'  the  Sword." 

"  Riddle  me,  riddlemaree,"  tjuoth  I, 

"  Is  a  game  that's  ill  to  win, 
And  the  day  is  o'er  fair  such  tasks  to  try  " — 

Said  he,  "  Ye  shall  know  at  the  inn." 
With  that  he  suited  his  path  to  mine 

And  we  traveled  merrily, 
Till  I  was  ware  of  the  promised  sign 

And  the  door  of  an  hostelry. 
And  the  Romany  sang,  "  To  the  very  life 

Ye  shall  pay  for  bed  and  board; 
Will  ye  turn  aside  to  the  House  of  Strife? 

Will  ye  lodge  at  the  Inn  o'  the  Sword?  ' 

Then  T  looked  at  the  inn  'twixt  joy  and  fear, 

And  the  Romany  looked  at  me. 
Said  I,  "  We  ha'  come  to  a  parting  here 

And  I  know  not  who  you  he." 
But  he  only  laughed  as  I  smote  on  the  door: 

"  Go,  take  ye  the  fighting  chance; 
Mnyhaj)  T  f)nce  was  a  troubadour 

In  the  knightly  days  of  France. 


2i8  WAR  VERSE 

Oh,  the  feast  is  set  for  those  who  dare 
And  the  reddest  o'  wine  outpoured ; 

And  some  sleep  sound  after  peril  and  care 
At  the  Hostelry  of  the  Sword." 

Punch. 


WAR  \ERSE  210 


TO  KING  GEORGE 

From  East  to  West,  from  North  to  South,  thy  Banner  is 

unfurled ; 
It  streams  above  the  Seven  Seas,  it  waves  throughout  the 

world ! 
The  sun  may  travel  far  by  day  and  journey  through  the 

night ; 
Speed  as  he  will,  thine  Empire's  bounds  be  yet  beyond  his 

sight. 
Discord  is  silent  at  thy  word,  and  safe  beneath  thy  rule 
The  lamb  and  lion  slake  their  thirst  beside  the  self-same 

pool. 
Each  home  is  nurs'd  in  Virtue's  lap,  and  Folk's  voice  is 

still; 
Even  in  dreams  there  cometh  not  a  single  thought  of  ill ! 
Fire,  water,  wind  obey  thy  will  and  th\-  commandments 

own ; 
Triumjih  and  Joy  dwell  calm  beneath  the  shadows  of  thy 

Throne! 
Imperial  Master,  noble  George,  our  sovereign  Lord  and 

King, 
Thee,  our  defense  in  time  of  need,  thy  loving  people  sing. 
While  tower  the  Mountains  of  the  North,  while  sunlight 

gilds  the  plain, 
While  gleams  the  silver  moon  by  nighl,  or  heaves  the 

rolling  main. 
World-wide,  unmoved,   imi)regnable,  may   thy  dominion 

stand, 
And  for  the  buttress  of  thv  Right  be  God's  protecting 

hand! 

SiKDAK  Daljit  Singh,  C  S.  I. 


220  WAR  VERSE 


OXFORD  REVISITED  IN  WAR  TIME 

Beneath  fair  Magdalen's  storied  towers 

I  wander  in  a  dream, 
And  hear  the  mellow  chimes  float  out 

O'er  Cherwell's  ice-bound  stream. 

Throstle  and  blackbird  stiff  with  cold 

Hop  on  the  frozen  grass  ; 
Among  the  aged,  upright  oaks 

The  dun  dee»  slowly  pass. 

The  chapel  organ  rolls  and  swells, 

And  voices  still  praise  God ; 
But  ah  !  the  thought  of  youthful  friends 

Who  lie  beneath  the  sod. 

Now  wounded  men  with  gallant  eyes 
Go  hobbling  down  the  street, 

And  nurses  from  the  hospitals 
Speed  by  with  tireless  feet. 

The  town  is  full  of  uniforms; 

And  through  the  stormy  sky. 
Frightening  the  rooks  from  the  tallest  trees, 

The  aeroplanes  roar  by. 

The  older  faces  still  are  here 
More  grave  and  true  and  kind. 

Ennobled  by  the  steadfast  toil 
Of  patient  heart  and  mind. 

And  old-time  friends  are  dearer  grown 

To  fill  a  double  place : 
Unshaken  faith  makes  glorious 

Each  forward-looking  face. 


WAR  VERSE  221 

Old  Oxford's  walls  are  gray  and  worn: 

She  knows  the  truth  of  tears, 
But  to-day  she  stands  in  her  ancient  pride 

Crowned  with  eternal  \ears. 

Gone  are  her  sons:  yet  her  heart  is  glad 

In  the  glory  of  their  youth, 
For  she  brought  them  forth  to  live  or  die 

By  freedom,  justice,  truth. 

Cold  moonlight  falls  on  silent  towers ; 

The  young  ghosts  walk  with  the  old ; 
But  Oxford  dreams  of  the  dawn  of  May, 

And  her  heart  is  free  and  bold. 

Tkrtius  Van  Dyke. 


222  WAR  VERSE 


THE  LOOM 

Riding  back  from  Caudebec  through  autumn  night  and 

rain, 
Through  colonnades  of  Norway  pine  that  fringe  the 

Norman  Seine, 
I  heard  a  wild  boar  grouting,  I  heard  a  lone  stag  bray, 
And — I  heard  the  muffled  mutter  of  the  great  guns  far 

awav. 


The  clitter-clock  of  the  horse's  hoofs  along  the  forest 

trail. 
The  sawing  of  a  withered  branch  that  felt  the  rising 

gale, 
The  creak  and  groan  of  leather — and  over,  under  all 
That  never-ending   murmur   with   its  half -heard   rise 

and  fall. 


Then,  as  a  wan  and  watery  moon  gleamed  thro'  the 

driving  rain. 
The  forest  turned  upon  itself  like  a  woman  in  her  pain. 
The  shadows  gathered  shape  and  form,  and,  monstrous, 

in  the  gloom 
Of   groves   that   knew   the   Elder   Gods,    I    saw   and 

heard — The  Loom. 


Its  whirring  wheel  from  earth  to  sky  bore  warp  and 

woof  of  weird, 
Its  distaff  wove  the  dooms  of  men,  its  phantom  spindle 

veered. 
While  the  wandering  wind  that  walks  the  world  came 

wailing  thro'  the  trees 
And  the  hair  upon  my  head  stood  up,  the  horse  flinched 

'neath  my  knees, 


WAR  VERSE  223 

For  I  knew  the  Gods  behind  the  Gods,  the  Gods  of  an 

older  day, 
The  Noins  who  were  ere  Odin  was,  whom  Ragnarok 

cannot  slay : 
And  I  was  the  child  of  an  ordered  world  and  followed 

the  Xazarene, 
But  their  spindle-song  sang  "  Christ  is  dead  with  all 

that  He  seemed  to  mean." 

And  the  old  fierce  Gods  have  come  again,  the  Gods  of 

pride  and  might, 
Whose  lips  are  slow  and  feeble  to  bless,  but  whose 

hands  are  heavy  to  smite, 
\\Mio,  desperate,  rule  the  world  for  a  while  in  dread  l)y 

fear  of  the  sword, 
With  the  hopeless  fates  behind  their  power  and  doom 

at  their  council  board. 

The  White  Christ  wails  in  Nibelheim  and  never  shall 
rise  again. 

His  Saints  are  dumb  and  in  their  stead  ride  the 
"  Choosers  of  the  Slain  "  ! 

And  my  heart  grew  cold  within  my  breast  as  the  shape- 
less shuttle  whirred. 

For  ever  the  whisper  of  distant  guns  was  their  songs' 
over-word. 

But,  as  I  shook  in  the  saddle  there,  I  signed  myself 
with  the  sign, 

And  a  new  heart  grew  within  my  breast  and  my  blood 
warmed  as  with  wine, 

I  tightened  my  knees  on  the  saddle-flaps  and  straight- 
ened my  back  and  called : 
"  For  all  the  weight  and  woe  of  your  weird  I  am  not  yet 
appalled, 

"  For  I  have  been  in  the  Ditches  of  Death  and  I  have 
seen  men  die, 
Your  warp  and  w(K)f  may  darken  the  earth  but  they 
cannot  hide  the  sky, 


224  WAR  VERSE 

Ye  may  grind  men's  bones  and  rive  their  flesh  and 

pound  their  works  into  dust, 
But  Christ  on  the  Cross  of  Calvary  is  the  sword  our 

souls  shall  trust !  " 

The  black  boughs  swung  against  the  sky,  a  sudden  rain 

squall  blurred 
The  half -seen  vistas  of  the  pines — At  speaking  of  the 

Word 
The    Sight    had    passed — and   as    I    rode    I    saw    by 

Mailleraie 
A  road-side  Calvary  stand  clear  against  the  dawning 

day. 

J.   H,  Knight-Adkin, 

Capt.   Glosters. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  \'ERSE  225 


THEIR  NURSES 

We   rocked   their   blue-lined   cradles,   we   watched   their 

smiles  and  tears; 
\\"\[h   toil-worn  hands  we  led  them  along  the  helpless 

years ; 
They  brought  to  us  their  sorrows,  to  us  their  broken  toys; 
We  were  their  first  fond  mothers,  they — just  our  baby 

boys ! 

The  years  went  by.    From  Sandhurst,  clean-limbed  broad- 
shouldered  men. 
To  us  in  lodge  and  cottage  would  come  our  boys  again. 
In  from  a  long  day's  hunting  or  wet  walk  with  the  guns, 
To  take  their  tea  with  "  Nana."     These  were  our  grown- 
up sons. 

Then  came  the  calling  bugles  that  drew  them  as  with 

cords ; 
Our  boys  came  home  as   soldiers   in  buckled  belts  and 

swords ; 
'Twas  "Wish  me  luck,  then,  Nana;  I'm  off  to  join  the 

crowd!" 
Wiiat  luck  did  we  not  wish  them!     And  oh,  but  we  were 

proud. 

We  shared  their  every  hardship;  we  knew,  we  knew  how 

well 
The  boys  we  nursed  would  bear  them  in  face  of  shot  and 

shell ; 
l'.\-  Mcmorv's  fireguard  shadow  flung  o'er  a  white  cot's 

fold' 
We,  with   the  hearts  of  mothers,  knew  when  our  boys 

slept  cold. 


226  WAR  VERSE 

We  shared  their  every  triumph,  admired  as  from  afar 
Each  new  toy  as  they  showed  it — each 'medal,  clasp  and 

bar; 
Our  babes  were  grown  to  Captains;  we  saw  them  crowd 

the  lists 
With  wooden  swords  of  boyhood  held  firm  in  dimpled 

fists. 

At  last,  long  feared  and  waited,  the  casual  word  came 

through : 
We  knew  them  "  killed  in  action  " ;  no  more  their  mothers 

knew ; 
The  world  may  speak  of  motherhood;  we  felt  its  pangs 

for  these 
Who  learned  to  play  at  soldiers  long  since  beside  our 

knees. 

Their  medals  to  their  mothers — the  honor  and  the  pride ; 
We,  too,  with  arms  as  empty,  remembering,  have  cried; 
They  were  our  dimpled  babies  whose  laugh  and  lisp  we 

keep; 
We  watched  their  infant  cradles — God  guard  their  sol- 
dier sleep! 

W.  H.  O. 
Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  227 


THE  ROAD 

The  Road  is  thronged  with  women :  soldiers  pass 
And  halt,  but  never  see  them:  yet  they're  here, 
A  patient  crowd  along  the  sodden  grass, 
Silent,  worn  out  with  waiting,  sick  with  fear. 
The  Road  goes  crawling  up  a  long  hillside 
All  ruts  and  stones  and  sludge,  and  the  emptied  dregs 
Of  battle  thrown  in  heaps:  liere,  where  they  died, 
Are  stretched  big-bellied  horses  with  stiff  legs; 
And  dead  men,  bloody-fingered  from  the  fight, 
Stare  up  at  cavern'd  darkness  winking  white. 

You  in  the  bomb-scorched  kilt,  poor  sprawling  Jock, 
You  tottered  here  and  fell,  and  stumbled  on. 
Half-dazed  for  want  of  sleep :  no  dream  could  mock 
Your  reeling  brain  with  comforts  lost  and  gone. 
You  did  not  feel  her  arms  about  your  knees. 
Her  blind  caress,  her  lips  upon  your  head : 
Too  tired  for  thoughts  of  home  and  love  and  ease, 
The  Road  would  serve  you  well  enough  for  bed. 

Siegfried  Sassoon,  B.  E.  F, 
The  Satitrdax  Review. 


228  WAR  VERSE 


A  HYMN  OF  LOVE 
(An  answer  to  the  "Hymn  of  Hate") 

Britannia,  Mother,  hear  our  joyous  hymn, 

As  strong  with  Freedom's  strength  and  fearless  pride. 
Serene  and  steadfast,  clean  in  life  and  limb. 

By  Love  sustained  and  through  Love  justified, 
We  fight  our  fight  for  Right. 
From  freedom  fashioned  and  by  Freedom  bound. 

Servants  to  Right  but  tyrants  to  the  Wrong, 
Grant  that  within  our  hearts  be  ever  found 

That  Love-born  Wisdom  which  alone  makes  strong 
And  justifieth  Might. 

Put  from  us  frothy  arrogance  and  hate, 

That  evil  offspring  of  a  meagre  Love ; 
If  smite  we  must,  then  let  our  blows  be  great 

With  joyous  laughter  born  in  Heaven  above, 
Not  with  a  Hell-spawned  spite. 
Britannia,  Mother,  at  thy  feet  we  kneel. 

As  Lovers  give,  so  reck  we  not  the  price, 
Bid  us  to  live  more  near  the  Great  Ideal, 

So  when  we  die,  a  fitting  sacrifice 
Be  offered  unto  Right. 

From  out  the  splendid  annals  of  the  past, 

Triumphant  swells  our  fathers'  battle  song, 
The  challenge  that  their  deathless  valor  cast 

Still  lies  defiant  at  the  feet  of  Wrong 
And  shames  our  tardy  Might. 
Britannia,  Mother,  as  they  made  thee  great, 

By  lives  whose  greatness  ever  lives  in  thee, 
So  bid  that  we  enrich  thy  precious  freight 

By  lives  whose  greatness  shall  eternally 
Bear  witness  to  the  Right. 


WAR  VERSE  229 

In  triumph  merciful,  in  ^rim  defeat 

Content  to  suffer  and  if  needs  be  die, 
So  that  Humanity  may  one  day  greet 

The  Freedom  that  our  blood  shall  sanctify, 
In  that  we  fou.^-ht  for  Right. 
Britannia,  Motherland,  be  great  in  us, 

So  shall  thy  children  all  be  great  in  thee, 
Each  guiding  each  to  Heaven ;  only  thus 

Shall  man  attain  God's  Love-born  unity. 
And  Right  be  one  with  Alight. 

See  the  whole  Empire,  our  great  Heritage, 

Far-flung  by  Freedom,  but  by  Love  made  one, 
True  .Archetype  of  the  Democratic  Age 

\\'hich  now  in  blood  and  travail  hath  begun 
To  bear  its  precious  fruit. 
Britannia,  Mother,  bid  our  Love  go  forth 

To  every  Nation  and  to  every  land,  ' 

Till,  free  from  hate  and  bondage.  Mother  Earth 

Fulfils  the  Harmony  which  God  hath  planned. 
But  man  must  execute. 

Ho  !     The  Joy  of  it !     The  Victor's  shout 

Already  throbs  triumphant  in  our  throats; 
Who  greatly  loveth  knows  nor  fear  nor  doubt. 

But  borne  on  Love's  eternal  pinions  floats 
Free  as  the  Eagle's  flight. 
Britannia,  Mother,  hear  our  joyous  hymn, 

As  strong  with  Freedom's  strength  and  fearless  pride, 
Serene  and  steadfast,  clean  in  life  and  limb, 

By  Love  sustained  and  through  Love  justified 
We  fight  our  fight  for  Right. 

•  Richard  Hope,  Lieut.,  R.  N. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


230  WAR  VERSE 


TO  AMERICA,  ON  HER  FIRST  SONS  FALLEN  IN 
THE  GREAT  WAR 

Now  you  are  one  with  us,  you  know  our  tears, 

Those  tears  of  pride  and  pain  so  fast  to  flow ; 

You  too  have  sipped  the  first  strange  draught  of  woe ; 

You  too  have  tasted  of  our  hopes  and  fears; 

Sister  across  the  ocean,  stretch  your  hand. 

Must  we  not  love  you  more,  who  learn  to  understand? 

There  are  new  graves  in  France,  new  quiet  graves; 

The  first-fruit  of  a  Nation  great  and  free. 

Full  of  rich  fire  of  life  and  chivalry, 

Lie  quietly,  though  tide  of  battle  laves 

Above  them:  sister,  sister,  see  our  tears. 

We  mourn  with  you,  who  know  so  well  the  bitter  years. 

Now  do  you  watch  with  us ;  your  pain  of  loss 
Lit  by  a  wondrous  glow  of  love  and  power 
That  flowers,  star-like  at  the  darkest  hour 
Lighting  the  eternal  message  of  the  Cross; 
They  gain  their  life  who  lose  it,  earth  shall  rise 
Anew  and  cleansed,  because  of  life's  great  sacrifice. 

And  that  great  band  of  souls  your  dead  have  met. 

Who  saved  the  world  in  centuries  past  and  gone, 

Shall  find  new  comrades  in  their  valiant  throng; 

Oh,  Nation's  heart  that  cannot  e'er  forget, 

Is  not  death  but  the  door  to  life  begun 

To  those  who  hear  far  Heaven  cry  "  Well  done !  " 

E.  M.- Walker. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  231 


ADMIRAL  DUGOUT 

He  had  done  with  fleets  and  squadrons,  with  the  restless 
roaming  seas, 
He  had  found  the  quiet  haven  he  desired, 
And  he  lay  there  to  his  moorings  with  the  dignity  and 
ease 
Most  becoming  to  Rear- Admirals  (retired)  ; 
He  was  bred  on  "  Spit  and  Polish  " — he  was  reared  to 
"  Stick  and  String  " — 
All  the  things  the  ultra-moderns  never  name ; 
But  a  storm  blew  up  to  seaward,  and  it  meant  the  Real 
Thing, 
And  he  had  to  slip  his  cable  when  it  came. 

So  he  hied  him  up  to  London  for  to  hang  about  Whitehall, 

And  he  sat  upon  the  steps  there  soon  and  late, 
He  importuned  night  and  morning,  he  bombarded  great 
and  small, 
From  messengers  to  Ministers  of  State ; 
He  was  like  a  guilty  conscience,  he  was  like  a  ghost  unlaid, 

He  was  like  a  debt  of  which  you  can't  get  rid, 
Till  the  Powers  That  Be,  despairing,  in  a  fit  of  temper 
said, 
"  For  the  Lord's  sake  give  him  something  " — and  thev 
did. 

They  commissioned  him  a  trawler  with  a  high  and  raking 
bow, 
Black  and  workmanlike  as  any  pirate  craft, 
With  a  crew  of  steady  seamen  very  handy  in  a  row, 

And  a  brace  of  little  barkers  fore  and  aft ; 
And  he  blessed  the  Lord  his  Maker  when  he  faced  the 
North  Sea  sprays 
And  exceedingly  e.xlolled  his  lucky  star 
That  had  given  his  youth  renewal  in  the  evening  of  his 
days 
(With  the  rank  of  C';ii)tain  Dugout,  K.  X.  R.). 


232  WAR  VERSE 

He  is  jolly  as  a  sandboy,  he  is  happier  than  a  king. 

And  his  trawler  is  the  darling  of  his  heart 
(With  her  cuddy  like  a  cupboard  where  a  kitten  couldn't 
swing, 

And  a  smell  of  fish  that  simply  won't  depart)  ; 
He  has  found  upon  occasion  sundry  targets  for  his  guns ; 

He  could  tell  you  tales  of  mine  and  submarine ; 
Oh,  the  holes  he's  in  and  out  of  and  the  glorious  risks 
he  runs 

Turn  his  son — who's  in  a  Super-Dreadnought — green. 

He  is  fit  as  any  fiddle ;  he  is  hearty,  hale  and  tanned ; 

He  is  proof  against  the  coldest  gales  that  blow ; 
He  has  never  felt  so  lively  since  he  got  his  first  command 

(Which  is  rather  more  than  forty  years  ago)  ; 
And  of  all  the  joyful  picnics  of  his  wild  and  wandering 
youth — 

Little  dust-ups  from  Taku  to  Zanzibar — 
There  was  none  to  match  the  picnic,  he  declares  in  sober 
sooth. 

That  he  has  as  Captain  Dugout,  R.  N.  R. 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  233 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  TREES 

Wind!  Wind!  what  do  you  bring 

\\  ilh  the  whirling  flake  and  the  flying  cloud? 
A  victor's  bays  and  a  song  to  sing? 

— Nay,  but  a  hero's  shroud ! 

Wild  wind !  what  do  you  bear — 

A  song  of  the  men  who  fought  and  fell, 

A  tale  of  the  strong  to  do  and  dare  ? 
— Aye,  and  a  tolling  bell ! 

Wind !  wind !  what  do  you  see — 

The  flying  flags  and  the  soldiers  brave, 

The  marching  men,  the  bold  and  free? 
— Nay,  but  a  new-dug  grave ! 

Wild  wind !  what  do  you  moan 

To  the  frosty  night  and  the  cloud-wracked  sky? 
— A  soldier's  cross,  a  father's  groan. 

And  a  mother's  hopeless  cry ! 

S.  Donald  Cox, 
London  Rifle  Brigade. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


234  WAR  VERSE 


WAR 

The  serpent-horror  writhing  in  her  hair, 

And  crowning  cruel  brows  bent  o'er  the  ground 
That  she  would  crimson  now  from  many  a  wound. 

Medusa-like,  I  seem  to  see  her  there — 

War!  with  her  petrifying  eyes  astare — 
And  can  no  longer  listen  to  the  sound 
Of  song-birds  in  the  harvest  fields  around; 

Such  prophecies  do  her  mute  lips  declare. 

Evils?     Can  any  greater  be  than  they 
That  troop  licentious  in  her  brutal  train? 
Unvindicated  honor?     She  brings  shame — 
Shame  more  appalling  than  men  dare  to  name, 
Betraying  them  that  die  and  them  that  slay, 
And  making  of  the  earth  a  hell  of  pain ! 

Florence  Earle  Coates. 
The  Athenaeum. 


WAR  VERSE  235 


ST.  OUEN  IN  PICARDY 

Gleams  of  English  orchards  dance 
Through  the  sunny  fields  of  France; 
Flowers  that  blow  at  Nedonchel 
Thrive  in  Gloucestershire  as  well; 
Children  sing  to  fleet  the  time 
What  they  deem  an  English  rhyme — 
"  Kiss  me  quick ;  aprcs  la  guerre 
Promenade  en  Angleterre." 

English  hearts  are  gladdened  when 
Out  of  children's  lips  again 
Comes  the  lilt  of  English  song 
\\  hen  their  absence  has  been  long; 
Children  running  through  the  street 
Beating  time  with  merry  feet — 
"  Kiss  me  cjuick  ;  aprcs  la  guerre 
Promenade  en  Angleterre." 

But  to  hear  them  as  they  sing 
Brings  a  sudden  questioning: 
Here  the  children  play  and  roam — 
How's  my  little  one  at  home? 
In  St.  Oucn  the  simple  strain 
1  akes  the  heart  with  hungr)'  pain — 
"  Kiss  me  c|uick;  apres'la  guerre 
Promenade  en  Angleterre." 


Punch. 


236  WAR  VERSE 


SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIERS 

What  of  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away 

Ere  the  barn-cocks  say 

Night  is  growing  gray, 
To  hazards  whence  no  tears  can  win  us ; 
What  of  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away  ? 


Is  it  a  purbHnd  prank,  O  think  you. 
Friend  with  the  musing  eye 
Who  watch  us  stepping  by, 
With  doubt  and  dolorous  sigh  ! 

Can  much  pondering  so  hoodwink  you ! 

Is  it  a  purbUnd  prank,  O  think  you, 
Friend  with  the  musing  eye  ? 


Nay.     We  see  well  what  we  are  doing, 
Though  some  may  not  see — 
Dalliers  as  they  be ! — 
England's  need  are  we ; 
Her  distress  would  set  us  rueing: 
Nay.     We  see  well  what  we  are  doing, 
Though  some  may  not  see ! 


In  our  heart  of  hearts  believing 
Victory  crowns  the  just. 
And  that  braggarts  must 
Surely  bite  the  dust, 
March  we  to  the  field  ungrieving. 
In  our  heart  of  hearts  believing 
Victory  crowns  the  just. 


WAR  VERSE  237 

Hence  the  faiih  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away 

Ere  the  barn-cocks  say 

Night  is  growing  gray, 
To  hazards  whence  no  tears  can  win  us; 
Hence  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away. 

Thomas  Hardy. 
TJu-  Times. 


WAR  VERSE 


THE  WIFE  OF  FLANDERS 

Low  and  brown  barns,  thatched  and  repatched  and 
tattered, 

Where  I  had  seven  sons  until  to-day — 
A  Httle  hill  of  hay  your  spur  has  scattered.     .     .     . 

This  is  not  Paris.     You  have  lost  your  way. 

You,  staring  at  your  sword  to  find  it  brittle, 
Surprised  at  the  surprise  that  was  your  plan, 

Who,  shaking  and  breaking  barriers  not  a  little, 
Find  never  more  the  death-door  of  Sedan. 

Must  I  for  more  than  carnage  call  you  claimant, 
Pay  you  a  penny  for  each  son  you  slay? 

Man,  the  whole  globe  in  gold  were  no  repayment 
For  what  you  have  lost.     And  how  shall  I  repay? 

What  is  the  price  of  that  red  spark  that  caught  me 
From  a  kind  farm  that  never  had  a  name? 

What  is  the  price  of  that  dead  man  they  brought  me? 
For  other  dead  men  do  not  look  the  same. 

How  should  I  pay  for  one  poor  graven  steeple 
Whereon  you  shattered  what  you  shall  not  know? 

How  should  I  pay  you,  miserable  people? 
How  should  I  pay  you  everything  you  owe? 

Unhappy,  can  I  give  you  back  your  honor? 

Though  I  forgave,  would  any  man  forget? 
While  all  our  great  green  earth  has    trampled  on  her, 

The  treason  and  terror  of  the  night  we  met. 

Not  any  more  in  vengeance  or  in  pardon, 

One  old  wife  bargains  for  a  bean  that's  hers. 

You  have  no  word  to  break :  no  heart  to  harden. 
Ride  on  and  prosper.     You  have  lost  your  spurs. 

G.  K.  Chesterton. 
The  Nezv  Witness. 


WAR  VERSE  239 


/ 


THE  NAVAL  RESERVE 

From  the  undiscovered  deep 

W'here  the  blessed  lie  at  ease — 
Since  the  ancient  navies  keep 
Empire  of  the  heavenly  seas — 

Back  they  come,  the  mighty  dead, 
Ouick  to  serve  where  the\-  have  led. 

Rushing  on  the  homeward  gale, 

Swift  they  come,  to  seek  their  place 
W'here  the  gray  flotillas  sail, 
Where  the  children  of  their  race 
Now  against  the  foe  maintain 
All  they  gave  their  lives  to  gain. 

Rank  on  rank,  the  admirals 

Rally  to  their  old  commands: 
Where  the  crash  of  battle  falls. 
There  the  one-armed  hero  stands. 
Loud  upon  his  jjliantom  mast 
Speak  the  signals  of  the  past. 

Where  upon  the  friendly  wave 

Stand  our  squadrons  as  of  old, 
Where  the  lonely  deed  and  brave 
Shall  the  ancient  torch  ui)hold — 

Strive  for  England,  side  by  side. 
Those  who  live  and  those  who  died. 

Evelyn  Underiiill. 
The  New  Weekly. 


240  WAR  VERSE 


THE  KING'S  HIGHWAY 

When  moonlight  flecks  the  cruiser's  decks 

And  engines  rumble  slow, 
When  Drake's  own  star  is  bright  above 

And  Time  has  gone  below, 
They  may  hear  who  list  the  far-off  sound 

Of  a  long-dead  never-dead  mirth, 
In  the  mid  watch  still  they  may  hear  who  will 

The  song  of  the  Larboard  Berth. 

In  a  dandy  frigate  or  a  well-found  brig, 

In  a  sloop  or  a  seventy-fotir, 
In  a  great  First-rate  zvith  an  Admiral's  flag, 

And  a  hundred  guns  or  more. 
In  a  fair  light  air,  in  a  dead  foul  wind, 

At  midnight  or  midday, 
Till  the  good  ship  sink  her  mids  shall  drink 

To  the  King  and  the  King's  Highway! 

The  mids  they  hear — no  fear,  no  fear ! 

They  know  their  own  ship's  ghost : 
Their  young  blood  beats  to  the  same  old  song 

And  roars  to  the  same  old  toast. 
So  long  as  the  sea-wind  blows  unbound 

And  the  sea-wave  breaks  in  spray, 
For  the  Island's  sons  the  word  still  runs 

"  The  King,  and  the  King's  Highway !  " 

Henry  Newbolt. 


WAR  VERSE  241 


LOUVAIN 

{To  Dom  BriDio  Dcstrce,  O.S.B.) 

It  was  the  very  heart  of  Peace  that  thrilled 

In  the  deej)  minsler  bell's  far-throbbing  sound, 
\\  hen  over  old  roofs  evening  seemed  to  build 

Security  that  this  world  never  found. 
Your  cloister  looked  from  Cesar's  rampart  high 

O'er  the  fair  city.     Clustered  orchard  trees 
Married  their  dreaming  murmur  with  the  sky. 

It  was  the  haunt  of  lore  and  living  peace. 
And  there  we  talked  of  youth's  delightful  years 

In  Italy,  in  England.     Now,  O  friend, 
I  know  not  if  I  speak  to  living  ears 

Or  if  upon  you  too  has  come  the  end. 
Peace  is  in  Louvain ;  dead  peace  of  spilt  blood 
Upon  the  mounded  ashes  where  she  stood. 

Yet  from  that  blood,  those  ashes,  there  arose 

Not  hoped-for  terror  cowering  as  it  ran, 
PjUt  divine  anger  flaming  upon  those 

Defamers  of  the  ver}-  name  (jf  man, 
Abortions  of  their  blind  hyena-creed. 

Who — for  "  protection  "  of  their  battle-host 
Against  the  unarmed  of  those  they  had  made  to  bleed, 

Whose  hearts  they  had  tortured  to  the  uttermost 
Without  a  cause,  past  pardon — fired  and  tore 

1'he  towers  of  fame  and  beauty,  while  they  shot 
And  butchered  the  defenceless  at  each  door. 

Put  History  shall  hang  them  high,  to  rot 
Unburied,  in  the  face  of  wrath  unborn. 
Mankind's  abomination  and  last  scorn. 

LAURlilNCE   BiNYON. 

The  Spectator. 


242  WAR  VERSE 


SERBIA  TO  THE  HOHENZOLLERNS 
{August,  1915) 

I  am  she  whose  ramparts,  ringed  with  Christian  swords, 
Bore  the  first  huge  batterings  of  the  Paynim  hordes. 
Ground  beneath  their  horse-hoofs,  broken  by  their  blows, 
I  was  made  a  pavement  for  the  feet  of  foes : 
Mighty  lords  from  Asia,  proud  above  their  peers, 
Rode  over  my  body  for  three  hundred  years: 
Buried  under  armies,  hopeless  did  I  lie. 
Hanging  on  to  honor,  sick  for  liberty ; 
Cried  to  Christ  for  justice,  grasped  a  broken  rood. 
Saw  each  hope  that  flickered,  stifled,  drowned  in  blood; 
Saw  through  torturing  ages,  dreadfully  arrayed, 
Antichrist,  all  armored,  riding  in  Belgrade ! 

So  the  iron  bit  my  soul ;  and  that  soul  became 
Iron,  fit  for  warriors'  use,  tempered  in  the  flame 
By  my  sweat  and  anguish,  out  of  my  despair. 
Step  by  step  I  won  it  back,  the  name  that  now  I  bear. 
Upstarts !     Can  you  teach  me  any  wrong  or  woe, 
T3a-anny  or  torture  that  I  do  not  know? 
Bid  your  heathen  armies  glut  all  hell  with  crimes! 
Loose  your  hounds  of  carnage !    'Twill  be  like  old  times. 
Though  your  hand  be  heavy,  though  your  head  be  high, 
Othman's  head  was  higher  in  the  days  gone  by ! 
I,  that  died  and  am  alive,  call  on  God  that  He, 
Who  shall  judge  the  quick  and  dead,  judge  'twixt  you 
and  me ! 

Cecil  Chesterton. 
The  New  Witness. 


WAR  VERSE  243 


SKY  SIGNS 

]]licn  all  the  anus  arc  sponged  and  cleaned,  and  fuses 

(JO  to  store, 
ll'lien  all  the  wireless  stations  cry — "  Come  home,  you 

ships  of  ivar  " — 
Come  home  again  and  leave  patrol,  no  matter  zvhere 

yoit  be." 
We'll  see  the  lights  of  England  shine, 
Flashing  again  on  the  steaming  line, 
As  out  of  the  dark  the  long  gray  hulls  come  rolling  in 

from  sea. 


The  long-forgolten  lights  will  shine,  and  gild  the  clouds 

ahead. 
Over  the  dark  horizon-line,  across  the  dreaming  dead 
That  went  to  sea  tvilh  the  dark  behind  and  the  spin  of 
a  coin  before. 
Mark  the  gleam  of  Orfordness, 
Showing  a  road  we  used  to  guess, 
From  the  Shetland  Isles  to  Dover  Cliffs — the  shaded 
lane  of  war. 


Up    the    Channel    with    gleaming    ports    will    homing 

squadrons  go, 
And  see  the  English  coast  alight  zvith  headlands  all 

aglo7C 
With  thirty  thousand  candle-power  flung  up  from  far 

Cris-nec. 
Portland  Bill  and  the  Needles'  Light. 
'I'ompions  back  in  the  guns  to-night- 
For    I'jiglish    lights    are    meeting    blench    across    the 

Soldiers'  Way. 


244  WAR  VERSE 

When  we  come  back  to  England  then,  ruith  all  the 

zvarring  done, 
And  paint  and  polish  come  up  the  side  to  ride  on  tube 

and  gun, 

IVe'll  know  before  the  anchor's  down,  the  tidings  won't 
be  new. 
Lizard  along  to  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
Every  lamp  was  burning  bright, 
Northern  Lights  or  Trinity  House — we  had  the  news 
from  you ! 

Klaxon. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  245 


REPORTED  MISSING 

My  ihouijlu  sliall  never  be  that  you  are  dead: 
W'lio  laughed  so  lately  in  this  quiet  place. 
The  dear  and  deei)-e\ed  humor  of  that  face 
Held  somelhinic  ever  living,  in  Death's  stead. 
Scornful  I  hear  the  flat  things  they  have  said 
And  all  their  piteous  platitudes  of  pain. 
I  laugh  !     I  laugh  ! — Eor  you  will  come  again — 
This  heart  would  never  beat  if  you  were  dead. 
The  world's  adrowse  in  twilight  hush  fulness, 
There's  purple  lilac  in  your  little  room, 
And  somewhere  out  beyond  the  evening  gloom 
Small  boys  are  calling  summer  watercress. 
Of  these  familiar  things  I  have  no  dread 
Being  so  very  sure  you  are  not  dead. 

A.  G.  KiiowN. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


246  WAR  VERSE 


"THE  SOUL  OF  A  NATION" 

{March  28,  191S) 

The  little  things  of  which  we  lately  chattered — 
The  dearth  of  taxis  or  the  dawn  of  spring; 

Themes  we  discussed  as  though  they  really  mattered, 
Like  rationed  meat  or  raiders  on  the  wing; — 

How  thin  it  seems  to-day,  this  vacant  prattle, 
Drowned  by  the  thunder  rolling  in  the  West, 

Voice  of  the  great  arbitrament  of  battle 
That  puts  our  temper  to  the  final  test. 

Thither  our  eyes  are  turned,  our  hearts  are  straining, 
Where  those  we  love,  whose  courage  laughs  at  fear, 

Amid  the  storm  of  steel  around  them  raining 
Go  to  their  death  for  all  we  hold  most  dear. 

New-born  of  this  supremest  hour  of  trial. 
In  quiet  confidence  shall  be  our  strength. 

Fixed  on  a  faith  that  will  not  take  denial 

Nor  doubt  that  we  have  found  our  soul  at  length. 

O  England,  staunch  of  nerve  and  strong  of  sinew. 
Best  when  you  face  the  odds  and  stand  at  bay. 

Now  show  a  watching  world  what  stuff  is  in  you ; 
Now  make  your  soldiers  proud  of  you  to-day ! 

Owen  Seaman. 
Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  247 


"...  THAT  HAVE  NO  DOUBTS" 

— Rudyard  Kipliiuj. 

The  last  resort  of  Kitigs  are  zve,  but  the  voice  of  peoples 
too — 
Ask  the  jj^iins  of  Valniy  Ridge — 
Lost  at  the  Beresina  Bridge, 
When   the   Russian   gims   were   roaring  death   and   the 
Guard  was  charging  through. 

Ultima  Ratio  Regis,  zve — but  he  who  has  may  hold, 

Se  curantes  Dei  curant, 

Hear  the  gunners  that  strain  and  pant, 
As  when  before  the  rising  gale  the  Great  Armada  rolled. 

Guus  of  fifty — sixty  tons  that  roared  at  Jutland  fight, 

Clatter  and  clang  of  hoisting  shell ; 

See  the  flame  where  the  salvo  fell 
Amidst  the  flash  of  German  guns  against  the  wall  of 
white. 

The  sons  of  English  carronadc  or  Spanish  cidverin — 
The  Danish  windows  shivered  and  broke 
When  over  the  sea  the  children  spoke, 

And  groaning  turrets  rocked  again  as  we  went  out  and  in. 

W'c  have  no  passions  to  call  our  otvn,  we  zvork  for  serf 
or  lord, 
Load  us  well  and  sponge  us  clean — 
Be  your  woman  a  slave  or  (lucen — 
And  we  will  clear  the  road  for  you  who  hold  us  l)\   ihc 
sword. 

We  come  into  our  ozcn  again  and  zcake  to  life  anezv — 
Put  your  paper  and  i)ens  away, 
T'or  the  whole  of  the  world  is  ours  to-da\', 

And  it's  we  who'll  do  the  talking  now  lo  suKJoth  the  way 
for  you. 


248  WAR  VERSE 

Hozviiz:cr  gun  or  Seventy- five,  the  game  is  ours  io  play. 
And  hills  may  quiver  and  mountains  shake, 
But  the  line  in  front  shall  bend  or  break. 

What  is  it  to  us  if  the  world  is  mad?     For  we  are  the 
Kings  to-day. 

Klaxon. 
Blackwood's  Magazine. 


WAR  VERSE  249 


EPIPHANY  VISION 

(/;/  the  Word) 

I'liis  is  the  night  of  a  Star. 

Dusk  grow  window  and  wall ; 

A  Cross  unseen  floats  red  o'er  the  wrack  of  war; 

Silences  fall 

In  the  house  where  the  wounded  are. 

"  Good-night  to  all !  " 

Then  I  pause  awhile  by  the  open  door,  and  see 

Their  patient  faces,  pale  through  the  blue  smoke-rings, 

On  the  night  of  l^piphany. 

But  who  are  these,  who  are  changed  utterly. 

Wearing  a  look  of  Kings? 

Brothers,  whence  do  ye  come? 

Royal  and  still,  what  Star  have  ye  looked  upon? 

— "  From  hill  and  valley,  from  many  a  city  home 

We  came,  we  endured  till  the  last  of  strength  was  gone. 

Over  the  narrow  sea. 

But  what  of  a  Star?     We  have  only  fought  for  home 

And  babes  on  the  mother's  knee." 

(Their  silence  saith.) 

— Brothers,  what  do  ye  bring 

To  the  Christ  Whom  Kings  adored? — "  W^e  cannot  Icll. 

We  might  have  fashioned  once  some  simple  thing;- 

Once  we  were  swift,  who  now  are  very  slow; 

We  were  skilled  of  hand,   who  bear  the  splint   and  ihe 

sling. 
We  gave  no  thought  to  I'ain,  in  the  \car  ago, 
Whf)  since  h.'ivc  j)asse(l  i]in)U'_;h  I  loll. 
But  what  slvtuld  wc  bring  Ilini  now- we,  derelicts  nigh 

past  mending?  " 


250  WAR  VERSE 

(Frankincense,  myrrh  and  gold; 

Winds  His  choristers,  worlds  about  His  knee.     .     .     . 

Hath  He  room  at  all  in  His  awful  Treasury 

For  the  gifts  our  Kings  unfold 

That  can  ne'er  be  told?) 

This  is  the  night  of  a  Star. 

This  is  the  long  road's  ending. 

They  are  sleeping  now ;  they  have  brought  their  warrior 

best 
To  the  Lord  their  God  Who  made  them; 
And  lo !  He  hath  repaid  them 
With  rest. — 

llnis  is  the  night  of  a  Star. 

The  laugh  that  rings  through  torment,  the  ready  jest, 
Valor  and  youth,  lost  hope,  and  a  myriad  dreams 
.Splendidly  given- 
He  hath  taken  up  to  the  inmost  heart  of  Heaven. 
And  now — while  the  night  grows  cold,  and  the  ward-fire 

gleams — 
You  may  guess  the  tender  Smile  as  He  walketh  hidden 
In  the  place  where  His  Wise  Ones  are. 

Mary  Adair-Macdonald. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  251 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOMBARD 

Our  faflicrs  rode  io  baitle, 

Our  fathers  did  prevail, 
Ji'ilh  breastplate,  greave  and  sollerci, 

Willi  hauberk  and  camail. 
They  broke  a  laiiee  2vith  the  Knights  of  France, 

.Ind  flashed  a  jive-foot  blade, 
All  in  the  days  of  chivalry. 

Before  the  guns  zuere  made. 

Close  in  his  flaming  smithy 

A  strong  churl  stooped  and  wrought, 
Hewed,  hammered,  pared  and  measured 

A  wizard's  life  of  thought. 
Our  fatliers  laughed,  "Is  the  varlet  daft, 

That  he  deems  a  knightly  crest 
Shall  (|uake  when  he  vomits  smoke  and  noise?" 

And  the  bombard  heard  them  jest. 

Deep  in  his  throat  he  answered 

(His  voice  was  passing  strong)  : 
S(iuire,  Baron,  Earl  and  Princeling, 

Ye  shall  feel  my  stroke  ere  long! 
Never  a  Knight  in  his  mail  so  bright 

lUit  the  bolts  I  cast  can  slay  "  ; 
The  Knights  charged  home  as  the  bombard  spoke; 

And  where  are  the  Knights  to-day  ? 

List  to  the  song  of  the  bombard 

(Mis  voice  is  passing  clear)  : 
'  Here  in  the  ranks  of  I-'.ngland ! 

The  Red  Cross  Knights  are  here! 
While  still  they  call  on  the  Lord  of  all 

And  die  for  a  Knightly  King, 
In  the  souls  of  ICnglish  gentlemen 

The  old  white  spark  shall  spring!" 


'252  WAR  VERSE 

Our  fathers  rode  to  battle, 

Our  fathers  did  prevail. 
With  breastplate,  greave  and  solleret, 

With  hauberk  and  camail. 
They  broke  a  lance  with  the  Knights  of  France, 

And  flashed  a  five-foot  blade, 
All  in  the  days  of  chivalry, 

Before  the  guns  were  made. 

Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  253 


PRAYER  BEFORE  WAR 
{/Ingiist,  1914) 

Lord  Cod,  ere  yet  our  drums  are  rolled, 
Kneeling:  before  Thine  awful  throne, 
We  pray  that  us-ward  as  of  old 

Thy  favoring  mercies  may  be  shown — 
We  who  too  often  tilled  with  pride 
Have  in  our  hearts  Thy  power  denied 
And  trusted  to  ourselves  alone. 

Thou  hast  been  gracious  unto  us, 

And  stood  as  guardian  at  our  gate; 
Steadied  us  on  the  perilous 

High  path  of  our  imperial  fate; 

Yet  when  have  we,  our  faults  in  view, 
With  fear  searched  out  and  striven  to  do 
The  work  for  which  Thou  mad'st  us  great  ? 

Have  we  not,  rather,  turned  aside 

Well  knowing  the  right  to  do  the  wrong? 
How  hast  Thou,  tolerant  of  our  pride, 
Borne  with  our  rebel  hearts  so  long, 
And  spared  us  who,  as  crowning  sin. 
Have  deemed  that  strength  our  own  wherein 
♦  Our  feet  were  firm,  our  hands  were  strong? 

Rich  altars  have  we  raised  to  Thee 

And  fruits  and  fallings  on  them  laid. 
Well  satisfied  that  men  should  see 
And  marvel  at  our  vain  parade ; 
But  that  ftnc  only  sacrifice 
Which  Thou,  C)  (]od!  wilt  not  despise — 
A  contrite  heart   -we  have  not  made. 


254  WAR  VERSE 

And  now  when  war  confounds  the  world 

On  Thy  strong  arm  we  fain  would  lean: 
Our  flags  ere  this  have  been  unfurled 
To  ends  that  Thou  hast  sorrowing  seen: 
Remember  not  that  we  of  old 
Too  oft  unblessed  by  Thee  were  bold, 
For,  see,  to-day  our  hands  are  clean. 

Wherefore  Thy  help  and  strength  we  seek 

In  this  fierce  quarrel  upon  us  thrust, 
For,  save  Thou  stand  beside  us,  weak 
Are  we  although  our  cause  is  just: 

Thou  know'st  how  hard  for  peace  we  strove, 
That  without  wrath  e'en  now  we  move 
And  do  but  fight  because  we  must. 

Nor  less,  because  aroused  by  wrong 

And  cries  of  far  distress  we  go 
In  the  great  name  of  Freedom  strong 
To  grapple  with  a  ruthless  foe, 

Thy  guidance  we  beseech,  for  Thou, 
To  whom  in  armor  girt  we  bow, 
Alone  to  what  we  march  dost  know. 

The  day  of  trial  is  come — the  day 

So  long  foreseen,  so  fraught  with  fate; 
With  troubled  hearts  once  more  we  pray 
(Remembering  Thee,  ah,  not  too  late!) 
That  Thou  for  all  our  faults  of  will. 
Our  pride,  our  greed,  wilt  hold  us  still 
To  Thy  great  purpose  dedicate. 

W.  G.  HoLi- 
The  Dublin  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  255 


FOR  THE  RED  CROSS 

Ye  thai  have  gentle  hearts  and  fain 

To  succor  men  in  need, 
There  is  no  voice  could  ask  in  vain 

\\  ith  such  a  cause  to  plead — 
The  cause  of  those  that  in  your  care, 

W  ho  know  the  debt  to  honor  due. 
Confide  the  wounds  they  proudly  wear, 

The  wounds  they  took  for  you. 

Out  of  the  shock  of  shattering  spears. 

Of  screaming  shell  and  shard. 
Snatched  from  the  smoke  that  blinds  and  sears, 

They  come  with  bodies  scarred, 
And  count  the  hours  that  idly  toll, 

Restless  until  their  hurts  be  healed. 
And  they  may  fare,  made  strong  and  whole, 

'J'o  face  another  field. 

And  yonder  where  the  battle's  waves 

Broke  yesterday  o'erhead, 
Where  now  the  swift  and  shallow  graves 

Cover  our  English  dead, 
Think  how  your  sisters  play  their  part, 

W  ho  serve  as  in  a  holy  shrine, 
Tender  of  hand  and  brave  of  heart, 

Under  the  Red  Cross  sign. 

Ah,  by  that  symbol,  worshipped  still, 

Of  life-blood  sacrificed, 
That  lonely  Cross  on  Calvary's  hill 

Red  witli  the  wounds  of  Christ; 
r.y  that  free  gift  to  none  denied, 

Let  Pity  pierce  you  like  a  sword, 
And  Love  go  out  to  open  wide 

The  gate  of  life  restored. 

OWKN    SiCAMAN. 

Punch. 


256  WAR  VERSE 


A  LAMENT  FROM  THE  DEAD 

Peace !    Vex  us  not :  we  are  Dead, 
We  are  the  Dead  for  England  slain. 
(O  England  and  the  English  Spring, 
The  English  Spring,  the  Spring-tide  rain: 
Ah,  God,  dear  God,  in  England  now!) 
Peace!     Vex  us  not:  we  are  the  Dead; 
The  snows  of  Death  are  on  our  brow: 
Peace  !     Vex  us  not ! 

Brothers,  the  footfalls  of  the  year 
(The  Maiden  month's  in  England  now!) 
I  feel  them  pass  above  my  head: 
Alas,  they  echo  on  my  heart ! 
(Ah,  God,  dear  God,  but  England  now!) 
Peace !     Vex  me  not,  for  I  am  Dead ; 
The  snows  of  Death  are  on  my  brow : 
Peace  !     Vex  me  not ! 

Brothers,  and  I — I  taste  again, 
Again  I  taste  the  Wine  of  Spring. 
(O  Wine  of  Spring  and  Bread  of  Love, 
O  lips  that  kiss  and  mouths  that  sing: 

0  Love  and  Spring  in  England  now!) 
Peace !     Vex  me  not,  but  pass  above : 
Sweet  English  Love,  fleet  English  Spring — 

Pass  !     Vex  me  not ! 

Brothers,  my  brothers,  I  pray  you — hark! 

1  hear  a  song  upon  the  wing, 
Upon  the  silver  v;ing  of  morn : 
It  is — dear  God!  it  is  the  lark — 
It  is  the  lark  above  the  corn. 

The  fledgling  corn  of  England's  Spring! 
Ah !  pity  thou  my  wearied  heart : 
Cease!    Vex  me  not! 

^r  'I*  *1*  *|» 


WAR  VERSh:  257 

Brothers,  I  beg  you  be  at  rest 
r»e  c|uite  at  rest  for  Ensjland's  sake: 
'I'he  tlowertul  h(nirs  in  England  now 
Sing  low  your  sleep  to  English  ears: 
And  would  ye  have  your  sorrows  wake 
The  Mother's  heart  to  further  tears? 
Xay !  be  at  peace,  her  lo\al  dead 
Sleep !     Vex  her  not ! 

W.  E.  K. 
The  Poetry  Kcvieiv. 


isS  WAR  VERSE 


/ 


SEDAN 


I,  from  a  window  where  the  Meiise  is  wide, 

Looked  Eastward,  out  to  the  September  night. 
The  men  that  in  the  hopeless  battle  died 

Rose  and  re-formed  and  marshalled  for  the  fight. 
A  brumal  army  vague  and  ordered  large 

For  mile  on  mile  by  one  pale  General, 
I  saw  them  lean  by  companies  to  the  charge ; 

But  no  man  living  heard  the  bugle  call. 

And  fading  still,  and  pointing  to  their  scars. 

They  rose  in  lessening  cloud  where,  gray  and  high, 

Dawn  lay  along  the  Heaven  in  misty  bars. 
But,  gazing  from  that  Eastern  casement,  I 
Saw  the  Republic  splendid  in  the  sky. 

And  round  her  terrible  head  the  morning  stars. 

HiLAIRE    BeLLOC. 

The  New  Witness. 


WAR  VERSE  259 


ABI,  VIATOR 


If  thou  hast  seen  the  standard  d\m 
Droop  in  its  mesh  of  dust  and  grime 
Above  the  carven  hands  of  him 
Who  bore  it  in  some  ancient  time; 
If  thou  hast  seen  the  silent  sword 
Rust  redly  in  its  tattered  sheath, 
Hast  caught  the  echo  of  the  word 
That  flung  an  English  glove  at  death, 
And  }'et  thy  pulses  march  unstirred, 
And  still  thy  breath  comes  calm  and  slow, 
Pass  on — no  Englishman  art  thou ! 

If  thou  canst  hear  and  see  to-day 
The  distant  clamor  and  the  fume 
Of  crimson  fate,  and  yet  canst  say 
"  The  gain  is  mine,  be  theirs  the  doom." 
If  thou  thy  unthrilled  hands  canst  fold, 
If  thou  canst  check  thy  seaward  tread, 
Canst  shun  the  dust  and  guard  the  gold, 
Thou  hast  no  kinship  with  thy  dead; 
Ah,  if  thy  craven  heart  is  cold, 
Pause  not  the  perilous  page  to  scan — 
Pass  on — thou  art  no  Englishman! 

I>ut  if  the  distant  unison 
Of  swooping  sword  and  flying  dart, 
Of  straining  sail  and  nuittering  gun. 
Touches  thy  spirit  and  thy  heart; 
If  I-Jigland's  day  and  I^ngland's  call 
Find  thee  a  son  of  England,  then 
Thrju  canst  not  falter — thou,  nor  all 
Her  noble  heritage  of  men ; 
Pass  on — she  stands,  although  we  fall. 
Pass  on  unshaken  though  stars  shake — 
Thyself  canst  tell  what  road  to  lake! 

The  British  Rcviczv. 


26o  WAR  VERSE 


TWENTY-TWO 

Twenty-two 
At  the  end  of  the  week,  if  he'd  seen  it  through. 

We  left  his  grave  in  the  cure's  hands ; 
I  met  him  as  I  was  coming  away — 

A  white-haired  man  in  cassock  and  bands — 
And  I  showed  him  where  it  lay. 

"  Twenty-two — 
Yet  he's  older  than  you  or  me,  M'sieu, 

And  the  riddle  of  time  for  him  is  read. 
Yes,  I  will  see  the  grave  kept  trim, 

And  after  the  prayers  for  our  own  are  said 
I  will  add  a  prayer  for  him." 

Twenty-two — 
Some  one  will  bitterly  weep  for  you ; 

Yet  she'll  lift  her  head  with  a  wonderful  pride : 
"  He  was  my  son,  and  his  life  he  gave. 

Shall  I  grudge  such  a  gift,  tho'  my  heart  has 
died? 
He  was  brave :  I  must  be  brave." 

Twenty-two — 
Ah !  for  the  dreams  that  can  never  come  true : 
All  that  the  world  should  have  had  in  store ! 
He  had  will  to  die  though  he  loved  to  live. 
We  must  be  ready  to  follow — the  more 
That  we've  many  less  years  to  give. 

Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  261 


THE  VOICE  OF  RACHEL  WEEPING 
{Belgium,   1914) 

Beloved,  little  beloved,  where  shall  I  find  you? 

Not  at  the  ends  of  the  earth,  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
On  the  winds,  in  the  stars,  in  the  desolate  spaces  of 
heaven. 

Yesterday  mine,  to-day  yon  have  ceased  to  be! 

The  kings  of  the  earth  and  the  rulers  take  counsel  to- 
gether, 
But  your  voice  and  your  eyes  that  looked  love  to  my 
eyes  are  gone. 
Fire  and  rapine  and  sword  are  flaming  around  me, 
They  have  ravished  my  child  from  my  life,  and  my 
life  goes  on. 

Beloved,  little  beloved,  where  shall  I  find  you? 

I  gave  you  your  shape  and  your  smile  and  your  inno- 
cent breath, 
And  the  travail  of  birth  that  I  knew  was  as  naught  to 
the  rending 
Of  my  body  and  spirit  and  soul  in  this  travail  of  death. 

All  religions  forsake,  and  philosophies  fail  me. 
Dark  as  the  primal  mother  I  stand  alone. 

One  wild  (|uestion  cries  in  my  night  and  the  answer 
Comes  not — His  sky  is  silent,  His  earth  a  stone. 

God  of  our  fathers — speak,  reveal,  enlighten! 

Lo,  with  despair  my  soul  grows  wan  and  wild ! 
Yet,  O  God,  hear  me  not,  heed  me  not,  count  mc  as 
nothing — 

Only  let  it  be  well  with  her,  my  child  I 

BiCATKici:  Ckkgan. 
The  Saturday  Review. 


262  WAR  VERSE 


TO  THE  MEN  WHO  HAVE  DIED  FOR  ENGLAND 

All  ye  who  fought  since  England  was  a  name, 

Because  Her  soil  was  holy  in  your  eyes; 
AVho  heard  Her  summons  and  confessed  Her  claim, 

Who  flung  against  a  world's  time-hallow'd  lies 
The  truth  of  English  freedom — fain  to  give 

Those  last  lone  moments,  careless  of  your  pain, 
Knowing  that  only  so  must  England  live 

And  win,  by  sacrifice,  the  right  to  reign — 
Be  glad,  that  still  the  spur  of  your  bequest 

Urges  your  heirs  their  threefold  way  along — 
The  way  of  Toil  that  craveth  not  for  rest. 

Clear  Honor,  and  stark  Will  to  punish  wrong! 
The  seed  ye  sow'd  God  quicken'd  with  His  Breath ; 
The  crop  hath  ripen'd — lo,  there  is  no  death ! 

Punch. 


WAR  VERSE  263 


IN  WAR  TIME 

Now  strikes  the  hour  upon  the  clock, 
The  black  sheep  may  rebuild  the  years; 

May  lift  the  father's  pride  he  broke, 
And  wipe  away  his  mother's  tears. 

To  him,  the  mark  for  thrifty  scorn, 
Ciod  hath  another  chance  to  give. 

Sets  in  his  heart  a  flame  new-born 
V,y  which  his  muddied  soul  may  live. 

Hiis  is  the  day  of  the  prodigal, 

The  decent  people's  shame  and  grief; 

When  he  shall  make  amends  for  all, 
The  way  to  glory's  bloody  and  brief. 

Clean  from  his  baptism  of  blood, 

New  from  the  hre  he  springs  again, 

In  shining  armor,  bright  and  good. 
Beyond  the  wise  home-keeping  men. 

Somewhere  to-night — no  tears  be  shed ! 

With  shaking  hands  they  turn  the  sheet. 
To  fmd  his  name  among  the  dead, 

I'lower  of  the  Army  and  the  Fleet. 

They  tell  with  proud  and  stricken  face 
Of  his  white  boyhood  far  away — 

Who  talked  of  trouble  or  disgrace? 
"  Our  splendid  son  is  dead !  "  they  say. 

Katiiauim:  Tynan. 
The  British  Review. 


264  WAR  VERSE 


THE  CLERK 

Perched  upon  an  office  stool,  neatly  adding  figures, 
With  cuffs  gone  shiny  and  a  pen  behind  his  ear; 

Deep  in  Liabilities,  Goods  and  Double  Entry, 
So  he  worked  from  year  to  year. 

Diligent  and  careful,  hedged  about  with  figures. 
Given  soul  and  body  to  discount  and  per  cent; 

Bounded  by  the  columns  of  Purchase  Book  and  Journal, 
Soberly  his  moments  went. 

Now  his  pen  has  ceased  from  adding  rows  of  figures, 
Ceased  from  ruling  ledgers  and  entering  amounts: 

Clad  in  sodden  khaki,  with  a  gun  in  Flanders 
He  is  balancing  accounts. 

B.  H.  M.  Hetherington. 
The  Bookman. 


WAR  VERSE  265 


OUR  FIGHTING  MEN 

The  war  is  like  the  Judgment  Day — 
All  sham,  all  pretext  tc^rn  away; 
And  swift  the  searching  hours  reveal 
Hearts  good  as  gold,  souls  true  as  steel. 
I'lest  saints  and  martyrs  in  disguise, 
Concealed  ere-while  from  holden  eyes. 

And  now  we  feel  that  all  around 

Have  angels  walked  the  well-known  ground; 

Not  winged  and  strange  beyond  our  ken, 

But  in  the  form  of  common  men. 

God's  messengers  from  Heaven's  own  sphere — 

Ln recognized  because  so  near. 

Ella  Fuller  Maitland. 
The  Spectator. 


266  WAR  VERSE 


UNMENTIONED  IN  DISPATCHES 

"  The  horse  and  the  mule  which  have  no  understanding." 

The  lowliest  combatants  are  we; 

We  come  not  hither  of  our  will, 

But  torn  from  out  our  homes  afar 

To  tread  these  fields  all  waste  with  war 

Where  beast  and  rider  both  they  kill. 

The  call  to  strife  we  never  heard, 
Our  dull  ears  miss  it  even  yet; 
We  know  not  why  men  fight  or  die, 
Gain  laurel  crowns  or  turn  and  fly, 
What  task  can  be  before  them  set. 

In  days  of  peace  we  envied  dogs 
Who  seemed  to  live  more  near  to  men; 
Lay  on  their  beds,  and  ate  their  food, 
And  looked  as  if  they  understood 
Their  master's  words,  his  gun,  and  pen. 

But  now  the  dogs  are  left  behind. 
They  come  not  to  this  dreadful  place; 
Companions  of  man's  home  and  play, 
Not  of  his  awful  judgment  day. 
His  supreme  glory  or  disgrace. 

*  «  4:  *  4:  4:  ale 

The  humble  horse,  who  sweats  like  man 
And  knows  the  soldier's  drudgery, 
Alone  of  all  the  four-foot  kind 
Must  share  man's  woe  w^ith  equal  mind. 
His  courage,  and  his  victory. 


WAR  VERSE  267 

Hunsjer  and  thirst,  fatigue  and  pain, 
The  horse  bears  all  and  says  no  word; 
He  llinches  not  at  cannon's  roar, 
At  smoke  and  fire,  din  and  gore. 
Nor  at  the  flash  of  naked  sword. 

The  battle  joined,  high  swells  his  crest, 
•  His  nostril  quivers,  winged  his  form, 
Like  ocean's  billow  rolls  his  mane, 
Thunder  his  hoofs,  his  eye  is  flame. 
His  onset  dire  as  the  storm. 

O  noble  fate !     Of  beasts  elect 
Co-worker  with  your  king  and  god — 
Bear  hardness,  toil,  disease,  and  strain ! 
Bear  stripes  and  wounds,  all  loss,  no  gain ! 
And  meekl}-  bow  beneath  your  rod. 

Your  grave  awaits  you ;  far  from  home 

Awful  and  tragic  and  forgot ; 

But  man  shall  reap  where  you  have  sown 

And  you  have  fallen  to  win  his  crown. 

You've  died  for  him ;  and  when  you  rise 

In  some  remoter  Paradise 

He'll  meet  you  and  disown  you  not. 

Helen  Hestkr  Colvill. 
The  Poclry  Review. 


268  WAR  VERSE 


V.  A.  D. 

There's  an  angel  in  our  ward  as  keeps  a-flittin'  to  and  fro 
With  fifty  eyes  upon  'er  wherever  she  may  go; 
She's  as  pretty  as  a  picture  and  as  bright  as  mercury, 
And  she  wears  the  cap  and  apron  of  a  V.  A.  D. 


The  Matron  she  is  gracious  and  the  Sister  she  is  kind, 
But  they  wasn't  born  just  yesterday  and  lets  you  know 

their  mind; 
The  M.  O.  and  the  Padre  is  as  thoughtful  as  can  be, 
But  they  ain't  so  good  to  look  at  as  our  V.  A.  D. 


She's  a  honorable  miss  because  'er  father  is  a  dook, 
But,  Lord,  you'd  never  guess  it  and  it  ain't  no  good  to 

look 
For  'er  portrait  in  the  illustrated  papers,  for  you  see 
She  ain't  an  advertiser,  not  our  V,  A.  D. 


Not  like  them  that  wash  a  teacup  in  an  orficer's  canteen 
And  then  "  Engaged  in  War  Work  "  in  the  weekly  Press 

is  seen; 
She's  on  the  trot  from  morn  to  night  and  busy  as  a  bee, 
And  there's  'caps  of  wounded  Tommies  bless  that  V.  A.D. 

She's  the  lightest  'and  at  dressin's  and  she  polishes  the 

floor. 
She  feeds  Bill  Smith  who'll  never  never  use  'is  'ands 

no  more; 
And  we're  all  of  us  supporters  of  the  harristocracy 
'Cos  our  weary  days  are  lightened  by  that  V.  A.  D, 


WAR  VERSE  269 

And  wlieii  the  War  is  over,  some  knighl  or  belted  earl, 
What's  survived  from  killin'  ticrmans,  will  take  'er  iov 

'is  girl ; 
They'll  go  and  see  the  pictures  and  then  'ave  shrimps 

and  tea ; 
'E's  a  lucky  man  as  gets  'er — and  don't  I  wish  'twas  me ! 

Funch. 


270  WAR  VERSE 


"REAL  PRESENCE" 

Not  on  an  Altar  shall  mine  eyes  behold  Thee, 
Tho'  Thou  art  sacrifice,  Thou  too  art  Priest; 

Bend,  that  the  feeble  arms  of  Love  enfold  Thee, 
So  Faith  shall  bloom,  increased. 

Not  on  a  Cross,  with  passion  buds  around  Thee, 
Thorn-crowned  and  lonely,  in  Thy  suffering ; 

Nay,  but  as  watching  Mary  met  and  found  Thee, 
Dawn-robed,  the  Risen  King, 

Not  in  the  past,  but  in  the  present  glorious, 
Not  in  the  future,  that  I  cannot  span. 

Living  and  breathing,  over  death  victorious. 
My  God    .     .     .     my  Brother-Man. 

Ivan  Adair. 
The  Poetry  Review^ 


WAR  VERSE  271 


BOAT-RACE  DAY,  1915 

No  sweatered  men  in  scanty  shorts 
This  morning  brings  upon  the  shp; 

To-day  no  anxious  cox  exhorts 

Care  for  that  frail  and  shining  ship ; 

The  gray  stream  runs;  the  March  winds  blow; 

These  things  were  long  and  long  ago. 

Now  at  the  need  of  this  dear  land 
All  that  is  theirs  is  Hers  to  take: 

Unfaltering  service — heart  and  hand 
Wont  to  give  all  for  honor's  sake ; 

They  builded  better  than  thev  knew 

\\'ho  "  kept  it  long  "  and  "  pulled  it  through." 

Not  herq  their  hour  of  great  emprise; 

No  mounting  cheer  toward  Mortlake  roars; 
Lulled  to  full  tide  the  river  lies 

Unfretted  by  the  fighting  oars; 
The  long  high  toil  of  strenuous  play 
Serves  England  elsewhere  well  to-day. 


Punch. 


272  WAR  VERSE 


ATTILA 

Swift  the  flaming  wings  of  death 
Beat  against  the  laboring  breath. 
Blazing  hearth  and  anguished  cry 
Smite  against  the  tranquil  sky, 
As  the  legions  thunder  by. 
For  the  ruthless,  tragic  beat 
Of  those  fierce,  relentless  feet, 
Broken  faith,  and  tarnished  sword, 
Judgment,  and  not  mercy,  Lord! 

While  upon  the  fields  of  red, 
Sleep  the  unremembered  dead. 
While  the  homeless,  in  the  glare 
Of  the  ruins  burnt  and  bare, 
Face  a  hell  of  black  despair. 
For  those  silent  heaps  that  lie 
Witness  to  a  silent  sky. 
Shattered  homes,  dishonored  sword, 
Judgment,  and  not  mercy,  Lord! 

But  when  stands  the  naked  soul. 
Shamed  and  broken,  at  the  goal. 
When  the  tragic  eyes  can  see. 
Through  that  cloud  of  infamy, 
Nothing  but  itself — and  Thee, 
Love  invincible  shall  plead, 
Hopeless  anguish,  deepest  need. 
Pity  sheathe  the  flaming  sword, 
Mercy,  and  not  judgment.  Lord. 

G.  R.  Glasgow. 
Chambers's  Journal. 


WAR  \'ERSE  273 


THE   SOLDIER  OF  THE   SOUTH 

(A  mountain  village  on  the  French  Riviera, 
December,   ipi^) 

Under  the  flag  o'  France  for  which  he  died 

This  child  of  hers  we  lay, 

In  the  small  church  upon  the  mountain-side 

Where  once  he  used  to  pray 

With  her  who  all  alone  is  weeping  here  to-day. 

The  blue,  blue  skies 

Keep  watch  above  the  village  where  he  lies, 
r)Ut  never  more  will  gaze  into  his  eyes; 
And  in  his  ears  there  ne'er  again  will  be 
The  crooning  song  that  sings  eternally 
The  blue,  blue  sea, 

^c  ^  ^  3^  ^  ^  ^^ 

O  Mother  France, 

Thou  of  the  steadfast  glance 

And  grave  sweet  mouth ! 

Of  all  thy  sons  who  gave  their  all  for  thee. 

Hath  any  given  a  greater  gift  than  he 

W'jio  for  thy  sake 

His  birthright  did  forsake 

In  this  all-radiant  country  of  the  South? 

As  one  who  goes  out  from  the  warmth  and  light 

To  breast  the  bitter  night, 

He  left  the  orange  groves,  the  olive  trees 

That  turn  to  silver  in  the  scented  breeze; 

He  left  his  darling  there, 

A  reel  carnation  in  her  twilight  hair; 

Left  love  and  sf)ng  and  sunshine— and  went  forth 

To  fight  thy  battle  in  the  snow-swept  North. 


274  WAR  VERSE 

Mother,  tho'  thy  brave  eyes  with  tears  be  dim, 

Shed  one  more  tear  for  him, 

And  let  the  memory  in  thy  heart  abide 

Of  him  whom  on  this  day 

Within  his  Httle  mountain-church  we  lay 

Under  thy  flag,  O  France,  for  which  he  died. 

George  Greenland. 
The  A thenaeum. 


WAR  VERSE  275 


MERCHANTMEN 

All  honor  be  lo  merchanlnien, 

And  ships  of  all  degree, 
In  warlike  dangers  manifold, 

Who  sail  and  keep  the  sea, 
In  peril  of  unlilten  coast 

And  dealh-besprinkled  foam, 
Who  daily  dare  a  hundred  deaths 

To  bring  their  cargoes  home. 

A  liner  out  of  Liverpool — a  tanker  from  the  Clyde — 
A  hard-run  tramp  from- anywhere— a  tug  from  Mersey- 
side — 
A  cattle-boat  from  Birkenhead— a  coaler  from  the  Tyne — 
All  honor  be  to  merchantmen  while  any  star  shall  shine ! 

All  honor  be  to  merchantmen, 

And  ships  both  great  and  small. 
The  swift  and  strong  to  run  their  race 

And  smite  their  foes  withal ; 
The  little  ships  that  sink  or  swim, 

And  pay  the  pirates'  toll, 
Unarmored  save  by  valiant  hearts, 

And  strong  in  naught  but  soul. 

All  honor  be  to  merchantmen. 

As  long  as  tides  shall  run, 
Who  gave  the  seas  their  glorious  dead 

Erom  rise  to  set  of  sun  ; 
All  honor  be  to  merchantmen 

While  I'jigl.'ind's  nrmie  shall  stand, 
Who  sailed  and  fought,  and  dared  and  died, 

And  served  and  saved  their  land. 


276  WAR  VERSR 

A  sailing  ship  from  Liverpool — a  tanker  from  the  Clyde — 
A  schooner  from  the  West  Countrie — a  tug  from  Mersey- 
side — 
A  fishing  smack  from  Grimsby  town — a  coaler  from  the 

Tyne — 
All  honor  be  to  merchantmen  while  sun  and  moon  shall 
shine ! 

C.  Fox  Smith. 
The  London  Chronicle. 


WAR  VERSE  277 


DEATH  AND  THE  FLOWERS 

Now  is  Death  only  plucking  flowers;  he  leaves 

The  garnered  grain  and  sunset  colored  fruit. 

Neither  to  bending  bough,  nor  mellow  root 

Xor  threshing  of  the  amber  harvest  sheaves 

He  comes ;  but  where  in  joyous  youth  serene 

The  sunny  blossoms  laugh  and  fear  no  sickle  keen. 

Perchance  he  wearies  of  his  ancient  ways 

The  hoards  of  treasure  ripe  and  over  ripe, 

The  stale,  familiar  gleanings,  true  to  type — 

Seedtime  and  sere  and  climacteric  days ; 

For  now  the  dusky  halls  of  Hades  gleam 

With  precious  flower-light  and  broken  hope  and  dream. 

Gone;  all  their  promise  gone,  for  nevermore 
Shall  sun  and  rain  rejoice  to  do  them  good, 
Or  glad  earth  labor  to  create  their  food. 
Naked  their  places,  and  where,  heretofore, 
The  shining  blossoms  sprang,  that  now  are  sped. 
Only  remain  the  stocks  who  built  and  nourished. 

The  reaper  reaps,  of  ruth  all  innocent. 

The  sparkle  and  the  splendor  and  the  glow 

Sink  into  nothingness  beneath  his  blow, 

Where  the  swathe  falls  and  withers  and  is  spent. 

Yet,  sweeter  than  all  fruit  the  days  fulfill. 

Fragrance  of  flowers  shall  haunt  our  empty  gardens  still. 

Eden  Piiillpotts. 
The  Westminster  Gazette. 


278  WAR  VERSE 


THE  VETERAN 

Where  are  my  comrades  who  joined  in  the  first  of  the 
fighting  ? 
Where  are  they  now  in  the  smoke  of  the  conflict  con- 
cealed? 
Their  rifles  are  dumb,  and  the  silence  is  grim  and  affright- 
ing; 
Night  is  at  hand — and  I  am  alone  in  the  field. 

Some  have  gone  home  to  rest  for  a  while  from  their 
labors, 
And  some  have  gone  home  to  a  rest  that  Earth  never 
has  known ; 
But  none  flinched  or  failed  in  their  trust  to  keep  faith 
with  their  neighbors — 
God  grant  me  their  strength  to  keep  faith  in  the  dark- 
ness— alone ! 

The  Bookman. 


WAR  VERSE  279 


WHERE  THE  FOUR  WINDS  MEET 

There  are  songs  of  the  north  and  songs  of  the  south, 

And  songs  of  the  east  and  west ; 
But  songs  of  the  place  where  the  four  winds  meet 

Are  the  ones  that  we  love  the  best. 

And  where  do  the  four  wuids  meet?  "  you  ask. 

The  answer  is  ready  at  hand — 
\\'here\  er  our  dear  ones  chance  to  be 

By  air,  or  by  sea,  or  land." 

So  the  sailor,  keeping  his  midnight  watch 

'■Mid  icicles,  snow,  and  sleet. 
Can  think  of  a  village  near  Portsmouth  town 

As  the  place  where  the  four  winds  meet. 

And  mother,  perhaps,  and  sweetheart  true 

Pray  hard  for  the  North  Sea  Fleet, 
And  harder  still  for  the  boy  who's  gone 

To  his  place,  where  the  four  winds  meet. 

And  the  man  on  guard  at  the  "  firing-step," 

'Mid   star-shells   shimmering  down, 
Can  think  of  his  home — where  the  four  winds  meet 

In  some  sheltered  English  town. 

And  thoughts  may  fly  to  the  distant  trench. 

Whatever  its  name  or  "  street," 
For  "  Somewhere  in  France,"  seems  far  less  vague 

If  we  add,  "  where  the  four  winds  meet." 

And  the  pilot  steers  thro'  the  trackless  waste 

While  the  engines  throb  and  boat, 
Flouting  surprise,  with  the  Army's  eyes 

High  up  where  the  four  winds  meet. 


28o  WAR  VERSE 

And  to  those  who  mourn  comes  a  cheering  cry, 
Which  the  angels  in  heaven  repeat, 
"  Grieve  not,  brave  hearts;  we  await  you  here — 
Here,  where  the  four  winds  meet." 

There  are  songs  of  the  north  and  songs  of  the  south. 

The  east  and  the  west  complete ; 
But  here  is  a  song  of  the  place  we  love, 

Which  is  called,  "  Where  the  four  winds  meet." 

Geoffrey  Dalrymple  Nash. 
Chambers's  Journal. 


WAR  VERSE  281 


SALONIKA  IN  NOVEMBER 

L'p  above  the  gray  hills  the  wheeling  birds  are  calling, 
Round  about  the  cold  gray  hills  in  never-resting  flight; 

Far  along  the  marshes  a  drifting  mist  is  falling, 

Scattered  tents  and  sandy  plain  melt  into  the  night. 

Round  about  the  gray  hills  rumbles  distant  thunder. 
Echoes  of  the  mighty  guns  firing  night  and  day, — 

Gray  guns,  long  guns,  that  smite  the  hills  asunder, 
Grumbling  and  rumbling,  and  telling  of  the  fray. 

Out  among  the  islands  twinkling  lights  are  glowing, 
Distant  little  fairy  lights,  that  gleam  upon  the  bay ; 

All  along  the  broken  road  gray  transport  wagons  going 
Up  to  where  the  long  gray  guns  roar  and  crash  alway. 

Up  above  the  cold  gray  hills  the  wheel-birds  are  crying, 
Brother  calls  to  brother,  as  they  pass  in  restless  flight. 

Lost  souls,  dead  souls,  voices  of  the  dying, 

Circle  o'er  the  hills  of  Greece  and  wail  into  the  night. 

Brian  Hill. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


282  WAR  VERSE 


EUTHANASY 

Prince  Azrael,  wan  Azrael, 

The  ghastly  Cavalier, 
To  view  this  battle-field  of  earth 

On  his  pale  horse  drew  near. 
Ah !  never  since  our  world  had  birth 

More  terrible  his  spear ! 

Amid  the  dying  and  the  dead 

His  path  has  always  lain ; 
Then  wherefore  doth  he  veil  his  head 

Before  these  newly  slain? 
It  cannot  be  that  Angel  dread 

Is  touched  by  human  pain ! 

"  Naught  ever  saw  I  like  to  this," 
The  bloodless  horseman  cried, 

"  No  hero  death-bed  like  to  this 
In  all  my  age-long  ride ; 
Oh !  never  men  so  died,  I  wis, 
Since  men  have  lived  and  died. 

"  All  shrank  from  me,  all  fled  from  me, 

Save  wretches  in  despair ; 
I  followed  with  a  hunter's  glee 

Or  slew  them  unaware ; 
But  these !    They  smile  and  run  to  me. 

As  though  my  face  were  fair." 

He  turned  him  to  a  new-born  ghost, 

"  What  miracle  is  here, 
That  I,  whom  men  have  feared  the  most, 

From  thee  should  have  no  fear? 
For  youth  was  thine,  and  well  thou  know'st 

How  life  in  youth  is  dear," 


WAR  X'ERSE  283 

"  Yea  !  dear  was  life,  thou  bitter  king," 

The  proud  glad  ghost  re[)lied, 
"  We  perished  in  our  morn  of  spring, 
Youth's  garland  cast  aside  ; 
But  there  was  yet  a  dearer  thing, 
Twas  that  for  which  we  died." 

R.  11.  Law. 
The  Spectator, 


284  WAR  VERSE 


THE  DEAD 

The  dead  are  with  us  everywhere, 

By  night  and  day ; 
No  street  we  tread  but  they  have  wandered  there 
Who  now  he  still  beneath  the  grass 
Of  some  shell-scarred  and  distant  plain, 
Beyond  the  fear  of  death,  beyond  all  pain. 
And  in  the  silence  you  can  hear  their  noiseless  footsteps 

pass — 
The  dead  are  with  us  always,  night  and  day. 

Where  once  the  sound  of  mirth  would  rouse 

The  sleeping  town. 
The  laughter  has  died  out  from  house  to  house; 
And  where  through  open  windows  late 
At  night  would  float  delightful  song. 
And  glad-souled  music  from  the  light-heart  revel-throng, 
In  quadrangle  and  street  the  windows  darkly  wait 
For  those  who  cannot  wake  the  sleeping  town. 

This  city  once  a  bride  to  all 

Who  entered  here, 
A  lover  magical  who  had  in  thrall 
The  souls  of  those  who  once  might  know 
Her  kiss  upon  their  lips  and  brow — 
A  golden,  laughter-hearted  lover  then,  but  now 
A  mother  gray,  who  sees  Death  darken  as  they  go, 
Son  after  son  of  those  who  entered  there. 


Yet  sometimes  at  the  dead  of  night 

I  see  them  come — 
The  darkness  is  suffused  with  a  great  light 
From  that  radiant,  countless  host: 


WAR  VERSE  285 

No  face  but  is  triumphant  there, 

A  flaming  crown  of  youth  iniperisliable  they  wear. 

A  thousand  years  that  passed  have  gained  what  we  to-day 

have  lost, 
The  splendor  of  their  sacrifice  for  years  to  come. 

A.  E.  Murray. 
The  Nation. 


286  WAR  VERSE 


THE  CALL  OF  ENGLAND 

[Every  lover  of  England  is  bound  to  give  what  he  can 
spare — and  something  more — for  the  help  of  those  who  may 
suffer  distress  through  the  War.  Gifts  to  the  National  Relief 
Fund  should  be  addressed  to  H.  R.  H.  The  Prince  of  Wales, 
at  Buckingham  Palace.] 

Come,  all  ye  who  love  her  well, 

Ye  whose  hopes  are  one  with  hers, 

One  with  hers  the  hearts  that  swell 
When  the  pulse  of  memory  stirs; 

She  from  whom  your  life  ye  take 
Claims  you ;  how  can  you  forget  ? 

Come,  your  honor  stands  at  stake ! 
Pay  your  debt! 


By  her  sons  that  hold  the  deep. 
Nerves  at  strain  and  sinews  tense, 

Sleepless-eyed  that  ye  may  sleep 
Girdled  in  a  fast  defence ; — - 

By  her  sons  that  face  the  fire 
Where  the  battle-lines  are  set — 

Give  your  country  her  desire! 
Pay  your  debt! 


He,  that,  leaving  child  and  wife 
In  our  keeping,  unafraid. 

Goes  to  dare  the  deadly  strife, 
Shall  he  see  his  trust  betrayed? 

Shall  he  come  again  and  find 
Hollow  cheeks  and  eyelids  wet? 

Guard  them  as  your  kith  and  kind ! 
Pay  your  debt! 


Punch. 


WAR  \1:RSE  287 

Sirs,  we  should  he  slinmed  indeed 

If  the  bitter  cry  for  bread, 
Children's  cries  in  cruel  need. 

Rose  and  fell  uncomforted! 
Ah,  but  since  the  patriot  glow 

Burns  in  English  bosoms  yet. 
Twice  and  thrice  ye  will,  I  know, 
Pay  your  debt ! 

Owen  Seaman. 


288  WAR  VERSE 


QUEENSLANDERS 

Lean  brown  lords  of  the  Brisbane  beaches, 

Lithe-limbed  kings  of  the  Culgoa  bends, 
Princes  that  ride  where  the  Roper  reaches. 

Captains  that  camp  where  the  gray  Gulf  ends — 
Never  such  goodly  men  together 

Marched  since  the  kingdoms  first  made  war; 
Nothing  so  proud  as  the  Emu  Feather 

Waved  in  an  English  wind  before ! 

Ardor  and  faith  of  those  keen  brown  faces ! 

Challenge  and  strength  of  those  big  brown  hands ! 
Eyes  that  have  flashed  upon  wide-flung  spaces ! 

Chins  that  have  conquered  in  fierce  far  lands ! — 
Flood  could  not  daunt  them.  Drought  could  not  break 
them; 

Deep  in  their  hearts  is  their  sun's  own  fire; 
Blood  of  thine  own  blood,  England,  take  them! 

These  are  the  swords  of  thy  soul's  desire ! 

Will  H.  Ogilvie. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  289 


MISSING 

"  He  was  last  seen  going  over  the  parapet  into  the  German 
trendies." 

What  did  >oti  find  after  war's  fierce  alarms, 
When  the  kind  earth  gave  you  a  resting  phice, 

And  comforting  night  gathered  you  in  her  arms, 
With  Hght  dew  faUing  on  your  upturned  face? 

Did  your  heart  beat,  remembering  what  had  been? 

Did  you  still  hear  around  you,  as  you  lay. 
The  wings  of  airmen  sweeping  by  unseen. 

The  thunder  of  the  guns  at  close  of  day  ? 

All  nature  stoops  to  guard  your  lonely  bed ; 

Sunshine  and  rain  fall  with  their  calming  breath ; 
You  need  no  pall,  so  young  and  newly  dead. 

Where  the  Lost  Legion  triumphs  over  death. 

When  with  the  morrow's  dawn  the  bugle  blew. 
For  the  first  time  it  summoned  you  in  vain ; 

The  Last  Post  does  not  sound  for  such  as  you ; 
Hut  God's  Reveille  wakens  you  again. 

Punch. 


290  WAR  VERSE 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FIELD-MARSHAL  EARL 

ROBERTS, 
OF  Kandahar  and  Pretoria 

(Born,  i8s2.     Died,  on  Service  at  the  Front,  Nov.  14th, 

1914) 

He  died,  as  soldiers  die,  amid  the  strife, 

Mindful  of  England  in  his  latest  prayer; 
God,  of  His  love,  would  have  so  fair  a  life 
Crowned  with  a  death  as  fair. 

He  might  not  lead  the  battle  as  of  old. 

But,  as  of  old,  among  his  own  he  went, 
Breathing  a  faith  that  never  once  grew  cold, 
A  courage  still  unspent. 

So  was  his  end ;  and,  in  that  hour,  across 

The  face  of  War  a  wind  of  silence  blew, 
And  bitterest  foes  paid  tribute  to  the  loss 
Of  a  great  heart  and  true. 

But  we  who  loved  him,  what  have  we  to  lay 
For  sign  of  worship  on  his  warrior-bier? 
What  homage,  could  his  lips  but  speak  to-day, 
Would  he  have  held  most  dear? 

Not  grief,  as  for  a  hfe  untimely  reft; 

Not  vain  regret  for  counsel  given  in  vain; 
Not  pride  of  that  high  record  he  has  left, 
Peerless  and  pure  of  stain ; 

But  service  of  our  lives  to  keep  her  free. 

The  land  he  served ;  a  pledge  above  his  grave 
To  give  her  even  such  a  gift  as  he, 
The  soul  of  loyalty,  gave. 


WAR  VERSE  291 

That  oath  we  plii^ht,  as  now  the  trumpets  swell 

His  requiem,  and  the  men-at-arms  stand  mute, 
And  through  the  mist  the  guns  he  loved  so  well 
Thunder  a  last  salute  ! 

Owen  Seaman. 
Piincli. 


292  WAR  VERSE 


GIFTS  OF  THE  DEAD 

Ye  who  in  Sorrow's  tents  abide, 

Mourning  your  dead  with  hidden  tears, 

Bethink  ye  what  a  weaUh  of  pride 

They've  won  you  for  the  coming  years. 

Grievous  the  pain ;  but,  in  the  day 
When  all  the  cost  is  counted  o'er. 

Would  it  be  best  that  ye  should  say : 
"  We  lost  no  loved  ones  in  the  war  "? 

Who  knows  ?     But  proud  then  shall  ye  stand 
That  best,  most  honored  boast  to  make : 
"  My  lover  died  for  his  dear  land," 

Or,  "  My  son  fell  for  England's  sake." 

Christlike  they  died  that  we  might  live ; 

And  our  redeemed  lives  would  we  bring, 
With  aught  that  gratitude  may  give 

To  serve  you  in  your  sorrowing. 

And  never  a  pathway  shall  ye  tread, 

No  foot  of  seashore,  hill,  or  lea, 
But  ye  may  think :  "  The  dead,  my  dead, 

Gave  this,  a  sacred  gift,  to  me." 

Habberton  Lulham. 
The  Spectator. 


WAR  VERSE  293 


AFTER-DAYS 

When  the  last  gun  has  long  withheld 
Its  thunder,  and  its  mouth  is  sealed, 

Strong  men  shall  drive  the  furrow  straight 
On  some  remembered  battle-field. 

Untroubled  they  shall  hear  the  loud 
And  gusty  driving  of  the  rains, 

And  birds  with  immemorial  voice 
Sing  as  of  old  in  leafy  lanes. 

The  stricken,  tainted  soil  shall  be 

Again  a  flowery  paradise — 
Pure  with  the  memory  of  the  dead 

And  purer  for  their  sacrifice. 

Eric  Chilman. 
The  Poetry  Review. 


294  WAR  VERSE 


IN  WAR 

Oh,  Christ,  Whose  word  in  GaUlee 
Drew  silence  o'er  an  angry  sea 
And  turned  the  tempest's  rage  aside 
Till  every  wave  was  pacified, 
Now  hear  again  the  anguished  cry, 
"  Have  pity.  Master,  lest  we  die." 

Oh,  Christ,  Who  in  compassion  wept 
Because  a  brother  lay  and  slept, 
And  yet  who  opened  Death's  dark  door 
And  set  it  thus,  for  evermore, 
Again  with  many  mourners  weep. 
For  those  beloved  who  lie  and  sleep. 

Oh,  Christ,  Whose  word  abideth  yet, 
Forgive  us,  if  our  hearts  forget 
That  life  and  death  and  sea  and  land 
Are  held  within  Thy  saving  Hand 
And  that  the  storm  of  human  will 
Must  die  before  Thy  "  Peace !  be  still." 

Ivan  Adair. 
The  Bookman. 


WAR  VERSE  295 


THE  CALL 

Hark !     'Tis  the  rush  of  the  horses, 
The  crash  of  the  galloping  gun ! 

The  stars  are  out  of  their  courses; 
The  hour  of  Doom  has  begun. 

Leap  from  thy  scabbard,  O  sword! 

This  is  the  Day  of  the  Lord! 

Prate  not  of  peace  any  longer, 
Laughter  and  idlesse  and  ease ! 

L'p,  every  man  that  is  stronger ! 
Leave  but  the  priest  on  his  knees! 

Quick,  every  hand  to  the  hilt ! 

Who  striketh  not — his  the  guilt ! 

Call  not  each  man  on  his  brother ! 

Cry  not  to  Heaven  to  save! 
Thou  art  the  man — not  another — 

Thou,  to  off  glove  and  out  glaive ! 
Fight  ye  who  ne'er  fought  before ! 
Fight  ye  old  fighters  the  more ! 

Oh,  but  the  thrill  and  the  splendor. 
The  sudden  new  knowledge— I  can ! 

To  fawn  on  no  hireling  defender, 
P.ut  fight  one's  own  fight  as  a  man! 

On  woman's  love  won  we  set  store ; 

To  win  one's  own  manhood  is  more. 

Who  hath  a  soul  that  will  glow  not, 

vSet  face  to  face  with  the  foe? 
"Is  life  worth  living?" — I  know  not: 

Death  is  worth  d\ing,  T  know. 
Aye,  I  would  gamble  with  Hell. 
And — losing  such  stakes — say,  'Tis  well ! 

F.  W.  BOURDILLON. 

The  Spectator. 


296  WAR  VERSE 


A  SOLDIER'S  LITANY 

When  the  foemen's  hosts  draw  nigh, 
Wlien  the  standards  wave  on  high, 
When  the  brazen  trumpets  call, 
Some  to  triumph,  some  to  fall, 
Lord  of  Hosts,  we  cry  to  Thee, 
Libera  nos  Domine ! 

When  the  opposing  squadrons  meet, 
When  the  bullets  fall  like  sleet, 
When  the  vanguards  forward  dash. 
When  the  flames  of  cannon  flash, 
Lord  of  Hosts,  we  cry  to  Thee, 
Libera  nos  Domine ! 

When  mingled  in  the  awful  rout, 
Vanquished's  cries  and  Victor's  shout, 
Horses'  screams  and  wounded's  groan. 
Dying,  comfortless,  alone, 
Lord  of  Hosts,  we  cry  to  Thee, 
Libera  nos  Domine ! 

And  when  night's  shadows  round  us  close, 
God  of  Battles,  succor  those, 
Those,  whose  hearts  shall  ever  burn 
For  loved  ones,  never  to  return. 
Lord  of  Hosts,  we  cry  to  Thee, 
Libera  nos  Domine ! 
(Save  us.  Lord). 

Richard  Raleigh, 
2d  Lieut.,  0.  and  B.  L.  I.,  France. 

The  Poetry  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  29^ 


THE  MEN  WHO  MAN 

The  men  who  man  our  batteries, 

The  men  who  serve  our  guns, 
Thev  need  not  honeyed  flatteries. 

For  they  are  Britain's  sons! 
They  go,  when  Duty  speeds  them, 

Wherever  bullets  fly ; 
Wherever  England  needs  them, 

When  Duty  bids,  they  die. 

The  men  who  man  our  strongholds. 

Or  march  to  yonder  field 
Where  Valor  against  Wrong  holds 

A  realm  that  scorns  to  yield, 
From  Chiltern  Hills  or  Grampians 

May  pour  their  living  tide. 
But  ail  are  England's  champions 

And  all  are  England's  pride. 

And  lo  !  how  the  abhorrence 

Of  sceptred  crime  can  join 
The  Thames  and  the  St.  Lawrence, 

The  Liffey  and  the  Boyne. 
For  England  need  but  ask  aid 

Where'er  her  branches  grow, 
And  like  a  leaping  cascade 

It  thunders  on  the  foe. 

Our  cheery  sailors,  lapt  in 

The  maiden  sea's  light  sleep, 
From  commodore  and  captain 

To  all  who  man  the  deep, 
Thev  hear  arouiid  their  bed  nought 

But  echoes  of  their  fame. 
And  well  they  man  the  Dreadnought 

Who  dread  not  aught  but  shame. 


298  WAR  VERSE 

And  whether  cahnly  harbored, 

Or  when  the  rocking  State 
Lurches  to  port  and  starboard, 

They  sail  the  seas  of  Fate; 
With  everlasting  laughter 

They  luff  to  wind  and  rain, 
Aforetime  and  hereafter 

The  men  who  man  the  main. 

The  men  who  man  Great  Britain, 

And  light  for  royal  George, 
On  battle's  anvil  smitten 

Leap  mightier  from  the  forge: 
Like  oaks  in  Orkney's  rough  spring 

They  flourish  torn  and  blown, 
For  all  are  Honor's  offspring 

And  all  are  England's  own. 

The  men  who  man  this  nation, 

And  sow  her  fame  abroad, 
They  ask  not  acclamation, 

They  need  not  England's  laud ; 
And  when  too  late  it  finds  them. 

And  falls  on  lifeless  ears, 
Where  yon  red  tempest  blinds  them 

They  need  but  England's  tears. 

Yet,  while  the  storm  grows  vaster 

Around  them  and  above, 
In  triumph  or  disaster 

They  shall  not  lack  our  love — 
They  who  to  Glory's  fanning 

This  streamer  have  unfurled, 
The  men  whose  joy  is  manning, 

The  men  who  man  the  world ! 

William  Watson. 
The  Saturday  Review. 


WAR  VERSE  299 


THE  SEARCH-LIGHTS 

Political  morality  diflers  from  iiulividual  morality,  because 
there  is  no  power  above  the  State. — General  Von  Bernhardi. 

Shadow  by  shadow,  stripped  for  fight, 
The  lean  black  cruisers  search  the  sea. 

NiglU-long  their  level  shafts  of  light 
Revolve  and  find  no  enemy. 

Only  they  know  each  leaping  wave 

May  hide  the  lightning  and  their  grave. 

And,  in  the  land  they  guard  so  well, 

Is  there  no  silent  watch  to  keep? 
An  age  is  dying;  and  the  bell 

Rings  midnight  on  a  vaster  deep; 
But  over  all  its  waves  once  more 
The  search-lights  move  froin  shore  to  shore. 

And  captains  that  we  thought  were  dead, 
And  dreamers  that  we  thought  were  dumb, 

And  voices  that  we  thought  were  fled 
Arise  and  call  us,  and  we  come: 

And  "  Search  in  thine  own  soul,"  they  cry, 
"  For  there,  too,  lurks  thine  enemy." 

Search   for  the  foe  in  thine  own  soul, 

The  sloth,  the  intellectual  pride, 
The  tri\ial  jest  that  veils  the  goal 

For  which  our  fathers  lived  and  died; 
The  lawless  dreams,  the  cynic  art. 
That  rend  thy  nobler  self  apart. 

Not  far,  not  far  into  the  night 

These  level  swords  of  light  cm  pierce: 

Yet  for  her  faith  docs  I'.ngland  fight. 
Her  faith  in  this  our  imivcrse. 

Believing  Truth  and  Justice  draw 

From  ff)unts  of  everlasting  law. 


300  WAR  VERSE 

Therefore  a  Power  above  the  State, 
The  unconquerable  Power,  returns. 

The  fire,  the  fire  that  made  her  great, 
Once  more  upon  her  ahar  burns. 

Once  more,  redeemed  and  healed  and  whole 

She  moves  to  the  Eternal  Goal. 

Alfred  Noyes. 
The  Times. 


WAR  VERSE  301 


WHERE  ARE  YOU  GOING,  GREAT-HEART? 

Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart, 
With  your  eager  face  and  your  fiery  grace? — 
Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart^^ 

"  To  fight  a  fight  with  all  my  might, 
For  Truth  and  Justice,  God  and  Right, 
To  grace  all  Life  with  His  fair  Light." 
Then  God  go  with  you,  Great-Heart! 

Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart? 
"  To  beard  the  Uevil  in  his  den ; 
To  smite  him  with  the  strength  of  ten; 
To  set  at  large  the  souls  of  men." 
Then  God  go  ivith  you,  Great- Heart! 

Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart? 
"  To  end  the  rule  of  knavery  ; 
To  break  the  yoke  of  slavery ; 
To  give  the  world  delivery." 

Then  God  go  li'ith  you,  Great-Heart! 

Where  arc  you  going,  Great-Heart? 
"  To  hurl  high-stationed  evil  down  ; 
To  set  the  Cross  above  the  crow  n  ; 
To  spread  abroad  My  King's  renown." 
Then  God  go  with  you,  Great-Heart! 

Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart .' 

"  To  cleanse  the  earth  f)f  noisome  things; 
To  draw  from  life  its  poison-slings; 
To  give  free  play  to  l-'recdom's  wings." 
Then  God  go  with  you,  dreal  Urarl! 


302  WAR  VERSE 

Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart? 
"  To  lift  To-day  above  the  Past; 
To  make  To-morrow  sure  and  fast ; 
To  nail  God's  colours  to  the  mast." 
Then  God  go  with  you,  Great-Heart  1 

Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart? 
"  To  break  down  old  dividing-lines ; 
To  carry  out  My  Lord's  designs; 
To  build  again  His  broken  shrines." 
_     Then  God  go  with  you,  Great-Heart! 

Where  are  you  going,  Great-Heart? 
"  To  set  all  burdened  peoples  free ; 
To  win  for  all  God's  liberty ; 
To  'stablish  His  Sweet  Sovereignty."  * 

God  gocth  with  you,  Great-Heart! 

John  Oxen  ham. 

From  "The  Vision  Splendid." 

Copyright,  1917,  by  George  H.  Doran  Company. 


WAR  VERSE  303 


A  LULLABY 

Because  some  men  in  khaki  coats 

Are  marching  out  to  war, 
Beneath  a  torn  old  flag  that  floats 

As  proudly  as  before ; 
Because  they  will  not  stop  or  stay, 

But  march  with  eager  tread, 
A  little  baby  far  away 

Sleeps  safely  in  her  bed. 

Because  some  grim,  gray  sentinels 

Stand  always  silently, 
\\  here  each  dull  shadow  falls  and  swells. 

Upon  a  restless  sea ; 
Because  their  lonely  watch  they  keep, 

With  keen  and  wakeful  eyes, 
A  little  child  may  safely  sleep 

Until  the  sun  shall  rise. 

Because  some  swift  and  shadowy  things 

Hold  patient  guard  on  high, 
Like  birds  or  sails  or  shielding  wings 

Against  a  stormy  sky  ; 
Because  a  strange  light  spreads  and  sweeps 

Across  a  darkened  way, 
A  little  baby  softly  sleeps 

Until  the  dawn  of  day. 

G.  R.  Glasgow. 
Chambers's  Journal. 


-iOl 


ToiLu  - 

/  Cfi  k 


r 


/ 


l-iit"!  K  f]«P 


•  1  ff-f     J » 


r7 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


AA      000  295  799    i 


